MISSOURIAN 

EUGENE  P  LYLE  JR. 


IE   MISSOURIAN 


H  JA- 
She  wu  the  spirit  of  At  enigma,  tiv-  » • 

«phits ' 


The  Missourian 


By 
EUGENE  P.  LYLE,  JR. 


In  my  predestin'd  Plot  of  Dust  and  Soul." 


— Omar 


Illutlrated  by  Ernest  llatkrll 


New  York 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 
1905 


Copyright,  1905,  by 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 

Published,  August,  1905 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that 
of  translation  into  foreign  languages, 
including  the  Scandinavian 


MY  TWO  BEST  FRIENDS 

father  ami  mp 


PART  I. 
THE  THORN  IN  THE  LAND  OF  ROSES 

I.     A  Wilful  Maid  Arrives          .... 
II.     A  Fra  Diavolo  in  the  Land  of  Roses    . 

III.  The  Violent  End  of  a  Terrible  Bandit    . 

IV.  La  Luz,  Blockade  Runner    .... 
V.     The  Storm  Centre 

VI.     A  Bruising  of  Arms  for  Jacqueline  . 
VII.     Swordsmanship  in  the  Dark  .... 

VEIL     The  Thoughts  of  Youth  May  Be  Prodigiously 
Long  Thoughts  ...... 

IX.     Toll-Taking  in  the  Huasteca  .... 

X.     The   Brigand   Chief      .         .         .      -  . 
XL     The  Cossacks  and  Their  Tiger  Colonel   . 
XII.     Pastime  Passing  Excellent     .... 

XIII.  Unregistered  in  Any  Studbook 

XIV.  The  Herald  of  the  Fair  God  . 


3 
n 
18 

27 
34 
45 
55 

64 
69 
80 


108 
114 


CONTENTS—  Continued 

XV.  The  Ritual     .         .         .         .         . 

XVI.  He  of  the  Debonair  Sceptre      . 

XVII.  Rather  a  Small  Man       . 

XVIII.  Little  Monarchs,  Big  Mistakes 

XIX.  A  Tartar,  and  a  Tartar     . 

XX.  In  the  Wake  of  Princely  Cavalcades    .. 

XXI.  The  Red  Mongrel  .... 

XXII.  "Equidad  en  la  Justicia" 

XXIII.  A  Curious  Pagan  Rite     . 

XXIV.  The  Man  Who  Did  Not  Want  to  be  Shot 
XXV.  The  Person  on  the  Other  Horse      . 

XXVI.  The  Strangest  Avowal  of  Love 

XXVII.  Berthe 

XXVIII.  "Mike" 

XXIX.  The  Whisper  of  the  Sphinx      . 

XXX.  The  Ambassador    .... 

XXXI.  Carlota 

XXXII.  The  Woman  Who  Did  Not  Hesitate 

XXXIII.  A  Sponsor  to  the  Fat  Padre 


CONTENTS—  Continued 

PART  II. 

THE  ROSE  THAT  WAS  A  THORN  IN  THE  LAND  OF  ROSES 

I.  Meagre  Shanks  ......       273 

II.     The  Black  Decree 284 

III.  As  Between  Women  .....       293 

IV.  The  Lacking  Coincidence   ....       298 
V.  The  Missourians         .....       306 

VI.  If  a  Kiss  Were  All    .         .         .         .         .315 

VII.  A  Crop  of  Colonels    .         .         .         .         .324 

VIII.  Royal  Resolution        .         .         .         .                335 

IX.  Interpreter  to  the  Almighty          .         .         .       344 

X.  Alone  Among  His  Loving  Subjects         .         .351 

XL  Fatality  and  the  Missourian        .         .                359 

XII.  The  Rendezvous  of  the  Republic          .         .       369 

XIII.  A  Buccaneer  and  a  Battle    ....       380 

XIV.  Blood  and  Noise— What  Else?   .         .-  391 
XV.  Of  All  News  the  Most  Spiteful  .         .         .       406 

XVI.  Vendetta's  Half  Sister,  Better  Born    .         .       422 

XVII.  Under  a  Spanish  Cloak     .         .         .         .       434 

XVIII.     El  Chaparrito 443 

XIX.  In  Articulo  Mortis     ...         .         .       459 

XX.  Knighthood's  Belated  Flower       .         .         .465 

XXI.  The  Title  of  Nobility         .         .         .'       .       475 

XXII.  The  Abbey  of  Mount  Regret      .        .        .484 

XXIII.  The  Contrariness  of  Jacqueline  .         .       496 

XXIV.  The  Journalistic  Sagacity  of  a  Daniel    .         .       506 


IE  PEOPLE  OF  '  THE  STORY 


THE  MISSOURIAN,  known  in  every  fight  as  the  Storm  Centre. 
His  real  name  is  John  D.  Driscoll,  familiarly  shortened  to 
Din  Driscoll.  At  the  close  of  the  Civil  War  he  finds  him- 
self a  lieutenant-colonel  in  General  Joe  Shelby's  brigade 
of  Confederate  daredevils,  sent  by  his  comrades  as  emis- 
sary to  the  Emperor  Maximilian  of  Mexico. 

JACQUELINE,  who  is  the  Marquise  Jeanne  d'Aumerle,  on  a 
mission  of  high  politics  from  Napoleon  III.  to  the  Court 
of  Mexico. 

BERTHE,  her  maid. 

MAXIMILIAN,  archduke  of  Austria,  occupant  of  the  New 
World  throne  created  for  him. 

CHARLOTTE  OF  ORLEANS,  the  Empress. 

ANASTASIO  MURGUIA,  a  Mexican  hacendado,  who  acquires 
riches  by  running  Federal  blockades  into  Southern  ports. 
He  is  both  a  coward  and  a  miser. 

MARIA  DE  LA  Luz,  his  daughter. 

RODRIGO  GALAN,  brigand  and  guerrilla. 

TIBURCIO,  blackmailer  of  the  highway,  scout,  and  "loyal 
Imperialist." 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  STORY— Continued 

AUGUSTIN  FISCHER,  "the  Fat  Padre,"  a  renegade  priest  of 

subtle  parts. 

MICHEL  NEY,  grandson  of  the  "Bravest  of  the  Brave." 
THE  MARSHAL  BAZAINE,  commander-in-chief  of  the  French 

Army  of  Occupation  in  Mexico. 
MADAME  LA  MARECHALE,  his  bride. 
COLONEL  DUPIN,  the  "Tiger  of  the  Tropics,"  chief  of  the 

Contra  Guerrillas. 

MIGUEL  LOPEZ,  colonel  of  Dragoons,  a  favorite  of  the  Emperor. 
MONSIEUR  £LOIN,  the  Emperor's  secretary. 
MARQUEZ,  MIRAMON,  MEJIA,  MENDEZ,  Imperialist  officers. 
REGULES,  ESCOBEDO,  Republican  officers. 
DANIEL  BOONE,  first  scout  among  the  Missourians,  one-time 

editor  and  editor  yet  to  be. 
"OLD  BROTHERS  AND  SISTERS,"  "TALL  MOSE"  BLEDSOE,  OF 

THE  COUNTY  OF  PIKE,  and  yet  more  of  the  Missouri 

colonels. 
BENITO  JUAREZ,  president  of  the  Mexican  Republic. 


LIST  OF  :LLUSTRATIONS 


"  JACQUELINE  " 

"  She   was   the  spirit  of  the  enigma,  the   very  per- 
sonification of  the  Napoleonic  sphinx  "  FnntiiptM 

FACING  PACK 
"  MURGUIA  " 

"He  had  evidently  passed  through  salty  spray,  had  braved 
the  deep,  this  shrinking  old  man  in  frayed  black  "   .     16 

"RODRIGO  GAL  AN" 

"  The  fierce  stranger,  however,  seemed  undecided.    His 
brow  furrowed,  and  for  the  moment  he  only  stared  "     18 

"JOHN  DESTWIDDIE  DRISCOLL,  THE  MISSOURIAN" 
"  His  cheeks  were  smooth,  but  they  were  tight  and  hard 
and  brown  from  the  weathering  of  sun  and  blizzard  "     38 

"COLONEL  DUPIN" 

"  The  Tiger  of  the  Tropics    ....     the  chief  of 
Contra  Guerrillas  " 

THE  EMPEROR  MAXIMILIAN 

"  MARIA  DE  LA  Luz  " 

"  The  tapestry  behind  them  parted  and  fell  "    .         .     146 

"  BERTHE  " 

".    .    .   brought  down  the  ponderous  knocker  so  terrific- 
ally that  it  abashed  her,  for  all  her  present  agitation  "  220 


THE  THORN   IN   THE   LAND 
OF   ROSES 


Array  you,  lordyngs,  one  and  all, 
For  here  begins  no  peace. ' ' 

— The  Ballad  of  the  Battle  of  Otterburn 


CHAPTER  I 

A  WILFUL  MAID  ARRIVES  FROM  FRANCE 

"  I'll  tell  thee,  it  is  the  stubbornest  young  fellow  of  France,  full 
of  ambition." — As  You  Like  It. 

JACQUELINE  was  a  gentlewoman  of  France.  But 
there  was  usually  mischief  in  her  handsome  head,  for 
all  its  queenly  poise.  Just  now,  she  was  running  away 
from  the  ship.  Captain  and  officers  of  the  Imperatrice  Eugenie, 
Imperial  red  pantaloons,  gilt  Imperial  eagles,  such  tokens  of 
awe  were  yet  not  awful  enough  to  hold  Jacqueline.  So,  with 
the  humility  of  limp  things  in  that  sticky  air,  the  sailors  shoved 
closer  in  the  small  boat  and  made  place  for  the  adjustment  of 
crisp  skirts.  With  the  lady  went  her  gentle  little  Breton  maid, 
who  trembled  with  the  trembling  of  every  plank  in  those 
norther-rocked  waters.  The  high  sun,  just  showing  himself 
after  the  late  gale,  was  sucking  a  gummy  moisture  out  upon 
all  surfaces,  and  the  perspiring  men  felt  mean  and  base  before 
the  starchy  freshness  of  the  two  girls. 

No  one  was  pleased  that  Jacqueline  was  going,  except 
Jacqueline  herself.  But  she  was  keen  for  it.  She  had  been 
impervious  to  their  flustered  anxiety,  also  to  the  tributes  to  her 
importance  betrayed  therein.  In  vain  they  argued  no  fewer 
than  two  emperors  to  dissuade  her.  She  meant  to  have  a 
walk  on  the  shore  and — a  demure  Parisian  shrug  settled  it. 

Jacqueline  rested  a  high-heeled  boot  on  a  coil  of  rope  and 
blithely  hummed  an  old  song — "Mironton,  mironton,  miron- 
taine!"  Oh,  how  she  had  wearied  of  bumping,  heaving, 
bumping!  At  first  she  had  enjoyed  the  storm.  It  was  a  new 

3 


The  Missourian 
.4  « 

kind  of  play,  and  the  mise-en-scene  was  quite  adequate.  But 
ennui  had  surged  in  again  long  before  danger  had  surged  out. 
And  now  she  considered  that  some  later  sensation  was  due 
her,  just  as  supper  after  an  evening  of  fasting.  In  such  a 
way,  her  life  long,  Jacqueline  had  sustained  existence.  Her 
nourishment  was  ever  the  latest  "frisson,"  to  use  her  own 
word.  She  craved  thrills  of  emotion,  ecstatic  thrills.  Natur- 
ally, then,  three  weeks  of  ocean  had  fretted  the  restless  lass  as 
intolerable,  tyrannical. 

During  the  norther's  blinding  fury,  the  liner  of  the  Compagnie 
Trans-Atlantique  had  groped  widely  out  of  her  course,  to 
find  herself  off  Tampico  when  the  storm  abated.  But  the 
skipper  saw  in  his  ill-luck  a  chance  for  fresh  meat,  and  he 
decided  to  communicate  with  the  port  before  going  on  to 
Vera  Cruz.  And  when  Jacqueline  found  that  out,  she  decided 
to  communicate  with  the  port  too. 

Little  enough  harm  in  that,  truly;  if  only  it  were  any  one  else 
but  Jacqueline.  In  her  case,  though,  all  concerned  would  have 
felt  easier  to  keep  her  on  board.  Then,  when  the  ship  sailed, 
they  were  sure  to  have  her  there.  Otherwise,  they  assuredly 
were  not.  For  they  knew  well  her  startling  capacity  for  whims. 
But  never,  never,  could  they  know  the  startling  next  way 
a  whim  of  hers  might  jump.  Yet  did  she  give  herself  the 
small  pains  of  wheedling?  Not  she.  The  mystery  of  her 
august  guardianship,  of  no  less  than  two  emperors,  and  the 
responsibility  falling  on  captain,  crew,  red  trousers,  and 
gilt  eagles — H£  bien,  what  then?  Neither  were  they  cunning 
with  their  dark  warnings  of  outlawry  and  violence.  Dread- 
fulest  horrors  might  lurk  in  the  motley  Gulf  town  held  by  force 
against  bloodthirsty  Mexicans.  But  croaking  like  that  only 
gave  brighter  promise  of  the  ecstatic  shiver.  So,  parbleu,  she 
went! 

The  brunt  of  anxiety  fell  on  poor  Sergeant  Ney.  Here  was 
a  young  soldier  whom  a  month  before  Louis  Napoleon  had 


A  Wilful  Maid  Arrives  from  France  5 

summoned  to  the  Tuileries,  to  charge  him  with  the  lady's 
safe  return  to  Maximilian's  court  in  the  City  of  Mexico,  where 
she  was  First  Dame  of  Honor  about  the  Empress  Charlotte. 
The  order  was  not  a  military  one,  else  it  must  have  fallen  to  an 
officer  of  rank.  It  was  not  even  official.  But  no  doubt  it 
enfolded  more  of  weight  for  that  very  reason.  Napoleon  III. 
believed  that  in  the  unofficial,  in  littleness  and  dark  gliding, 
lay  the  way  to  govern  a  state.  Michel  Ney  regarded  his  task 
as  a  complete  enigma.  He  had  only  to  see  a  girl  to  the 
end  of  her  journey.  He  was  a  slow-thinking,  even  a  non- 
thinking agent,  but  in  a  contingency  he  could  fight,  still  with- 
out thinking. 

The  girl  under  his  escort,  however,  was  another  sort  of 
agent  entirely.  She  was  the  spirit  of  the  enigma,  the  very 
personification  of  the  Napoleonic  sphinx.  She  was  the 
Imperial  Secret  flung  a  thousand  leagues,  there  to  work  itself 
out  alone  in  a  new  land  of  empire.  Two  months  ago  Louis 
Napoleon  had  recalled  her  from  the  Mexican  court  to  her  old 
circle,  to  the  Tuileries,  to  St.  Cloud,  to  Compiegne,  and  almost 
at  once  he  had  sent  her  back  again.  This  time  she  came 
with  the  sphinx's  purpose. 

Getting  himself  into  the  small  boat,  Ney  stole  a  glance  at 
the  gray  eyes  opposite  him — for  the  moment  they  were  gray, 
as  well  as  treacherously  innocent  and  pensive — and  he  reflected 
woefully  that  she  had  quite  too  much  spirit  altogether  for  an 
Egyptian  dame  of  stone.  She  was  making  it  very  hard  for 
him.  What  caprice  might  not  possess  her  while  on  shore, 
and  the  ship  to  sail  within  a  few  hours  ?  It  was  not  a  predica- 
ment for  sabre  play.  And  he  made  the  mistake  of  trying  to 
wield  his  wits  a  little. 

"I  should  take  it  as  an  honor,  mademoiselle,"  he  faltered, 
"I  should,  truly,  if  you'd  only  believe  that  I  would  impose  my 
escort  for  the  pleasure  it  gives  me,  as  well  as — as  well  as " 

But  she  did  not  seem  to  notice  that  he  stumbled.    Her 


6  The  Missourian 

eyes  were  intent  on  the  green  water,  which  the  oars  trans- 
muted into  eddying  crystals.  He  would  go  on,  she  knew,  and 
lay  more  exposed  the  place  where  she  meant  to  strike.  She 
had  coquetted  with  him,  old  play  fellow  that  he  was,  for  just 
a  little  during  the  voyage,  as  with  others  too,  for  that  matter. 
But  she  had  tired  of  it,  as  she  had  also  of  the  chagrin  of  wives 
and  sweethearts  on  board,  or  as  she  had  of  Hugo's  "Napoleon 
le  Petit,"  which  she  read  purely  out  of  contrariness  to  the 
censorship  laid  on  the  exiled  poet.  Michel  Ney,  however, 
and  this  she  noted  carefully,  now  kept  close  within  his  soldier's 
shell.  He  had  that  unofficial  duty  to  think  on,  which  was 
enough  and  over. 

•   " as  well  as,"  he  finished  desperately,  "as  a  duty  to  an 

authority  over  us  both.  If  you  would  believe  that,  made- 
moiselle?" 

Then  she  struck.  A  word  sufficed.  "Oh,  Monsieur  the 
Sergeant!"  she  exclaimed.  Her  tone  was  deprecating,  but 
she  lingered  wickedly  on  the  title.  The  young  Frenchman 
looked  down  on  his  natty  uniform.  No  other  cut  or  cloth  in 
the  whole  imperial  army  of  France  was  more  dashing  than 
the  sky-blue  of  a  Chasseur  d'Afrique,  but  none  of  that  filled 
Michel's  eyes.  For  him  there  were  only  the  worsted  stripes. 
He  colored  and  winced. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  said  meekly,  "I  should  have  said, 
'Monsieur  the  Duke/" 

The  Chasseur  flushed  like  a  boy.  "Why  will  you  harp  on 
what  a  grandfather  made  me ?"  he  blurted  out.  "And  what's 

a  duke ?" 

"And  a  prince ?— the  Prince  of  Moskowa ! "  She  courtesied 
horn  her  slender  waist. 

'I Alas  for  my  blunders,"  she  sighed,  "for  it  was  more 
delicate  after  all  to  call  you  sergeant.    In  that  I  congratulate 
you  yourself,  Michel,  and  never  a  grandfather." 
Ney  frowned  unhappily.    "The  first  prince  of  Moskowa 


A  Wilful  Maid  Arrives  from  France  7 

was  once  a  sergeant,"  he  murmured,  "and  why  shouldn't 
I,  in  this  new  country " 

"Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine,"  she  sang,  and  smiled 
on  him. 

His  eyes  flashed,  and  because  of  the  voice  his  heart  quickened. 
He  had  heard  of  "this  new  country."  It  was  "a  gold  mine  in 
a  bed  of  roses,"  but  with  a  thorn,  to  say  nothing  of  a  bayonet, 
for  every  bud,  and  like  many  another  young  Frenchman  he 
hoped  to  win  renown  in  the  romantic  Mexican  Empire,  sprung 
like  Minerva  from  the  brain  of  his  own  emperor.  And 
now  here  was  a  girl  humming  the  war  song  of  his  fathers  and 
of  his  race,  and  flaunting  his  warrior's  ambition  in  it. 

"My  Sergeant  has  gone  to  the  wars, 
Far  off  to  war  in  Flanders. 
He's  a  bold  prince  of  commanders, 
With  a  fame  like  Alexander's — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine! 

"Mon  Sergot  s'en  va  t-en  guerre — 
Ne  sais  quand  reviendra. 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine!" 

Having  thus  ousted  the  crusading  hero  of  the  song,  and 
put  the  slang  for  "sergeant"  in  his  stead,  Jacqueline  leaned 
back  on  the  gunwale  quite  contented.  She  fell  to  gazing  on 
the  transparent  emerald  of  the  inshore,  and  plunged  in  her 
hand.  The  soft,  plump  wrist  turned  baby  pink  under  the 
riffles.  Of  a  sudden  Berthe  her  maid  half  screamed,  whereat 
with  a  delighted  little  gasp  of  fright,  she  jerked  out  the  hand. 
But  she  put  it  back  again,  to  tempt  the  watchful  shark  out 
there. 

"  My  grandfather  was  only  a  duke,"  she  mused  aloud,  very 
humbly.  But  she  peeped  up  at  Ney  in  the  most  exasperating 
manner.  He  could  just  see  the  gray  eyes  behind  the  edge  of 
lace  that  fell  from  the  slanting  brim  of  her  hat.  He  would 
not,  though,  meet  the  challenge.  He  kept  to  sincerity  as  the 
safer  ground. 


g  The  Missourian 

"Like  mine,  mademoiselle,  yours  made  himself  one,  under 

Napoleon." 

"The  great  Napoleon,"  she  corrected  him  gently. 

Michel  assented  with  a  sad  little  nod.  Then  he  raised  his 
head  bravely.  "And  why  not  do  things  without  a  great 
Napoleon,  and,  after  all,  isn't  he  a  Napoleon,  and  one  who " 

"Is  lucky  enough  to  bear  a  name  that  means  seven  million 
votes.  7  should  rather  be  a  '  sergeant'  and  congratulate  none 
but  myself  on  it,  Monsieur  the— Duke." 

Again,  with  the  wisdom  of  a  slow  intelligence,  the  Chasseur 
held  back  from  her  subtleties.  If  only  he  might  betray  her 
into  frankness — a  compliment  she  paid  to  few  men  and  to  a 
woman  never — then,  just  possibly,  he  might  make  her  tractable 
as  to  their  prompt  return  to  the  ship. 

"Still,  it  is  a  name  to  rally  to,"  he  persisted,  acknowledging 
in  spite  of  himself  the  magic  that  had  swayed  the  Old  Guard. 

For  once  she  left  the  poor  shark  in  peace. 

"A  name,  a  name?"  she  repeated. 

"Isn't  'France'  enough  of  a  name  for  your  rallying,  mon- 
sieur?" 

But  the  honest  mood  could  not  last.  In  the  same  breath  she 
hastened  on,  "Yes,  yes,  France,  the  beloved  of  us  proud  grand- 
children of  original  dukes.  Of  myself,  sir,  with  a  chateau 
in  the  Bourbonnais,  whose  floors  are  as  well  watered  as  the 
vineyards  outside.  And  your  France  too,  Michel,  giving  you 
only  your  clean  linen  to  disguise  the  sergeant  and  remind 
us  of  the  marshal  of  the  First  Empire.  Of  course,"  she  added 
kindly,  "there  is  the  bravery.  I  had  forgotten  that,  O  grand- 
son of  the  'brave  des  braves.'  But  then? — Bonte*  divine, 
there's  no  rank  in  courage,  mon  ami!  It's  not  the  epaulette 
of  a  French  uniform — it's  the  merest  lining." 

"And  that,"  the  youth  cried  doggedly,  "is  still  enough 
to " 

"To  do  things  for  France,  eh  petit  piou-piou?" 


A  Wilful  Maid  Arrives  from  France  9 

"Helas!  our  France  can't  expect  much  from  me.  But  you, 
mademoiselle,  you  will  do  things  for  her!"  It  was  a  spon- 
taneous tribute,  just  that,  without  thought  of  prying  into  the 
secret  of  her  mission.  "While  I,"  he  ended  dismally,  "can 
only  fight." 

"But  you  forget,"  she  answered  gravely,  "that  after  all  a 
woman  can  only  give." 

That  cynicism  of  life  which  had  become  a  part  of  the  young 
girl  was  yet  gaiety  itself.  Youth  and  health  and  beauty 
would  not  have  even  cynicism  otherwise.  But  now,  as  she 
spoke,  the  irony  was  bitter,  and  worn,  as  of  age.  And  behind 
it  was  a  woman's  reluctance  before  some  abhorred  sacrifice,  a 
sacrifice  which  would  entail  the  woman's  power  to  give. 

Ney  stared  at  her  uncomprehendingly.  Here  lay  a  clue  to 
her  mysterious  errand  in  Mexico.  But  he  was  not  thinking 
of  her  as  the  Napoleonic  enigma  personified.  It  was  of  her- 
self he  thought,  an  enigma  apart.  She  was  a  flower  of  France. 
Yet  many,  many  flowers  blossom  there.  She  might  be  a  grande 
dame,  of  nobility  of  womanhood  as  well  as  of  family.  Or 
again,  she  might  be  only  an  alluring,  heartless  witch,  that 
helped  to  make  tempting,  and  damnable,  the  brilliant  Second 
Empire.  But  in  any  case,  Jacqueline  was  truly  as  dainty  as 
a  flower. 

"It  has  already  cost  us  enough  to  gain  this  New  World," 
ventured  the  Chasseur,  waving  a  hand  toward  the  desolate 
shore,  "and  we  made  Maximilian  emperor,  but  now  they 
say  that,  that  he  would — they  say  so  in  Paris,  mademoiselle — 
that  he  would  rob  us  of  it." 

"Indeed,  monsieur?"  There  was  warning  in  the  look  she 
gave  him. 

"But,"  he  plunged  on  boldly,  "our  soldiers  still  hold  it, 
that  is,  until,  until  someone  shall  win  it  for  us  for  our  very 
own,  absolutely.  Ducal  grandfathers  never  did  more  than 
that  for  France." 


10 


The  Missourian 


"Where  or*  you  leading,  Michel?    Please  take  mewithyou." 

"To  a  question.  Don't  you  think  'someone'  is  risking  a 
great  deal  for  a  little  walk  on  shore?" 

Before  she  answered  he  knew  that  she  had  seen  through 
all  his  blundering  wiles. 

"Are  there  guerrillas  there?"  she  asked  pensively. 

"You  should  know.  But  they  say,  that  out  of  Tampico 
especially " 

She  was  gazing  toward  the  land,  sandy  and  flat.  Once  she 
looked  back  with  lively  distaste  at  the  rocking  ship.  Now 
she  interrupted. 

"It  would  be  fun  traveling  overland — and  such  excitement!" 

Ney's  shoulders  went  up  in  despair. 

"Oh,  my  poor  guardian!"  she  exclaimed  contritely.  "But 
why  aren't  you  a  reader  of  the  poets?  Then  you  would  find 
something  to  say  to  make  me  feel — sorry." 

"You  say  it  then." 

"Why,  for  example,  you  might  call  all  the  stored  vengeance 
of  heaven  right  down  on  my  ungrateful  top." 

The  soldier  gazed  at  the  ungrateful  top.  It  was  of  burnished 
copper.  A  rebellious  lock  was  then  blowing  in  the  wind,  and 
there  was  a  wide,  rakish  crown  of  rice-white  straw.  There 
was  also  a  soft  skin  of  creamy  satin,  lips  blood  red,  a  velvet 
patch  near  a  "dimple,  and  two  gray  eyes  that  danced  behind 
the  hat's  filmy  curtain.  An  ungrateful  top,  out  of  all  mercy  1 


CHAPTER  II 
A  FRA  DIAVOLO  IN  THE  LAND  OF  ROSES 

"  A  haunter  of  marshes,  a  holder  of  moors." — Beowulf. 

THE  torpid,  sordid  and  sunbaked  port  of  Tampico  gave 
Uttle  promise  of  aught  so  romantic  and  rare  and  exotic  as  the 
young  French  woman's  coveted  thrill  of  ecstasy.  There  was 
first  the  sand  bar,  which  kept  ships  from  coming  up  the  deep 
Pdnuco  to  the  town.  Beyond  there  were  lagoons  and  swamps 
mottling  the  flat,  dreary,  moisture-sodden,  fever-scourged 
land.  There  were  solemn  pelicans,  and  such  kind  of  grotesque 
bird  as  use  only  one  leg,  it  being  long  enough  for  two,  and 
never  that  to  walk  upon,  so  far  as  anybody  had  ever  noticed. 
Such  an  old  fellow  would  outline  himself  against  the  yellow 
loneliness,  like  a  lump  of  pessimistic  philosopher  impaled  on 
the  end  of  his  own  hobbling  crutch.  Tarpons  and  sharks 
and  sword-fish,  monstrous,  sinister,  moved  slothfully  in  the 
viscid  waters.  From  scrubby  growth  on  the  banks  a  hundred 
or  a  hundred  thousand  crows  had  much  ado  with  rebuking 
the  invaders  of  their  solitude. 

Next,  clusters  of  thatch  roofs  appeared,  and  in  an  hour 
the  party  from  the  Imperatrice  Eugenie  gained  the  wharf  of 
the  port.  The  sailors  managed  to  steer  through  a  tangle 
of  shipping  and  dugout  scows,  the  latter  heaped  high 
with  fruits  and  flowers  of  many  colors,  or  hides  or 
fish  of  many  aromas.  Before  the  small  boat  could  touch 
the  worm-eaten  quay,  Jacqueline  had  poised  herself  on 
its  edge,  caught  her  skirts,  and  hopped  lightly  over  the 

ii 


12  The  Missourian 

stretch  of  water  yet  remaining.     Then  she  gazed  curiously 
around  on  Mexico. 

And  Mexico  was  there  in  various  forms  to  greet  her,  though 
in  no  form  animated.  Sluggish  creatures  under  peaked 
sombreros  of  muddied  straw  seemed  to  be  growing  against 
the  foreground  of  wharf  and  dingy  warehouses,  and  fastened 
to  the  background  of  sallow  blazing  streets  and  sallow  reflecting 
walls  there  were  still  the  same  human  barnacles.  But  no  ere? 
ture  seemed  ever  to  move.  They  all  looked  a  part  of  the  decay, 
of  putrefying  vegetable  and  flesh  and  fish  everywhere,  which 
grew  so  rank  in  life  that  in  death  their  rotting  could  never 
keep  pace. 

A  lazy  town  stretched  up  a  lazy  street.  On  a  hill  farther 
up  the  river  a  fortress  basked  in  peace,  and  had  no  desire  to 
be  disturbed.  In  the  town  the  buildings  were  of  warped 
timber,  and  a  few  of  stone.  Parasitic  tumors,  like  loathsome 
black  ulcers,  swelled  abundantly  on  the  roofs.  They  were  the 
buzzards,  the  only  form  of  life  held  sacred.  To  clean  up 
nature's  and  man's  spendthrift  killing  was  a  blessed  service 
in  Tampico.  It  saved  exertion. 

A  strange  region,  by  all  odds!  But  at  least  one  could  walk 
thereon,  and  Jacqueline  thought  it  droll.  An  outlandish 
corner  of  the  earth  such  as  this  was  something  never  experienced 
before.  But  as  to  that,  the  outlandish  corner  might  have  said 
the  same  about  Jacqueline.  Men  stared  like  dazed  sheep  on 
the  astounding  apparition  of  a  lady.  Some  among  them  were 
entirely  clothed,  in  sun-yellowed  white.  There  was  a  merchant 
or  so,  a  coffee  exporter  or  so,  a  ranchero  or  so,  and  hacendados 
from  the  interior.  But  they  were  all  hard,  typical,  and  often 
darkly  scowling,  which  seemed  an  habitual  expression  inspired 
by  the  thought  of  a  foreign  Hapsburg  emperor  so  mighty 
and  proud,  far  off  in  their  capital.  There  was  not  an  officer 
among  them;  nor,  quite  likely,  a  gentleman.  Never  a  bit  of 
red  was  to  be  seen  from  the  garrison  on  the  hill.  The  French 


A  Fra  Diavolo  in  the  Land  of  Roses          13 

invaders  up  there,  with  pardonable  taste,  kept  to  themselves. 
Their  policing  ended  with  the  smothering  of  revolt.  So  against 
the  stain  of  tainted  mankind,  the  vision  of  delicate  femininity 
contrasted  as  a  fleck  of  spotless  white  on  a  besmeared  palette. 
But  crows,  scavengers,  men,  they  were  all  so  many  "creatures" 
to  Jacqueline — the  setting  of  a  very  novel  scene,  and  she 
would  not  have  had  it  otherwise. 

She  turned  to  her  maid,  who  shrank  hesitating  in  the  boat. 
"Berthe,  you  pitiful  little  ninny,  are  you  coming?  Then  do, 
and  do  not  forget  the  satchel."  For  a  promenade  of  an  hour 
the  inhabitants  of  two  imperial  courts  must  needs  have  a 
satchel,  filled  of  course  with  mysteries  of  the  toilet.  The 
maid  obeyed,  and  followed  her  mistress  up  the  lazy  ascending 
street.  They  passed  through  the  Alameda  of  dense  cypresses, 
an  inky  blot  as  on  glaring  manila  paper,  while  the  shade 
overhead  was  profane  with  jackdaws.  The  lady  tripped  on, 
and  into  the  street  again.  Ney  and  a  sailor  hurried  to  overtake 
her.  The  other  sailors  meantime  went  on  their  errand  for 
fresh  meat,  but  Michel  had  said  to  the  steward  in  charge, 
"If  there  should  be  any  need,  I'll  send  this  man  to  you.  Then 
you  come,  all  of  you,  quick!" 

Jacqueline  pushed  on  her  voyage  of  discovery,  and  her 
retinue  trooped  behind,  single  file,  over  the  narrow,  burning 
sidewalks  of  patched  flagstone.  The  word  " Cafe"  on  a  corner 
building  caught  her  eye.  It  was  a  native  fonda,  overflowing 
with  straw-bottomed  chairs  and  rusty  iron  tables  half-way 
across  the  street,  making  carts  and  burros  find  their  way 
round.  Mexico's  outward  signs  at  least  were  being  done  over 
into  French.  Hence  the  dignity  of  "Cafe." 

"Here  is  Paris,"  the  explorer  announced.  "And  this  is  the 
Boulevard."  She  seated  herself  before  one  of  the  iron  tables 
that  rocked  on  the  egg-like  cobblestones.  She  made  Ney 
sit  down  also,  and  included  Berthe  and  the  sailor.  An  olive 
barefoot  boy  took  their  order  for  black  coffee.  Jacqueline's 


14  The  Missourian 

elbows  were  on  the  table  and  her  chin  on  two  finger  tips,  and 
she  disposed  herself  placidly,  as  though  this  were  the  Maison 
Dore'e  and  Tout  Paris  sauntering  by.  The  town  was  beginning 
to  stretch  after  its  siesta.  That  is  to  say,  divers  natives 
manifested  symptoms  of  going  to  move  in  the  course  of 

time. 

"Look!"  exclaimed  Jacqueline.     "Only  give  yourself  the 

trouble  to  look!" 

She  was  pointing  to  a  man,  of  course.  The  Chasseur 
stirred  uneasily.  One  could  never  see  to  the  end  of  Jacqueline's 
slender  finger.  "There,  Berthe,"  she  cried,  "it's  Fra  Diavolo, 
just  strayed  from  the  Ope*ra." 

The  stranger  she  meant  was  talking  darkly  to  another  man 
in  the  door  of  the  Cafe*.  If  a  Fra  Diavolo,  he  was  at  least  not 
disguised  in  his  monk's  cowl,  either  because  the  April  day  was 
too  hot  or  because  he  had  never  owned  one.  But  he  stood 
appareled  in  his  banditti  role,  very  picturesque  and  barbaric 
and  malevolent.  And  though  he  posed  heavily,  he  yet  had 
that  Satanic  fascination  which  the  beautiful  of  the  masculine 
and  the  sinister  of  the  devil  cannot  help  having.  His  battered 
magnificence  of  a  charro  garb  fitted  well  the  diabolic  character 
which  Jacqueline  assigned  him.  Spurs  as  bright  as  dollars 
jangled  on  high  russet  heels.  His  breeches  closed  to  the  flesh 
like  a  glove,  so  that  his  limbs  were  as  sleek  as  some  glossy 
forest  animal's.  The  cloth  was  of  Robin-Hood  green,  foxed 
over  in  bright  yellow  leather.  From  hip  to  ankle  undulated  a 
seam  of  silver  clasps.  More  silver,  in  braided  scrolls,  adorned 
his  jacket,  and  wrapped  twice  around  the  waist  was  a  red 
banda.  Jacqueline  would  have  preferred  the  ends  dangling, 
like  a  Neapolitan's.  The  ranchero,  for  such  he  appeared, 
wore  two  belts.  One  was  a  vibora,  or  serpent,  for  carrying 
money;  the  other  held  his  weapons,  a  long  hunting  knife  and  a 
revolver,  each  in  a  scabbard  of  stamped  leather  embroidered 
with  gold  thread.  His  sombrero  was  high  pointed  and  heavy, 


A  Fra  Diavolo  in  the  Land  of  Roses          15 

of  chocolate-colored  beaver  encircled  by  a  silver  rope  as  thick 
as  a  garden  hose. 

"Now  there's  realism  in  those  properties,"  Jacqueline  noted 
with  an  artist's  critical  eye.  "See,  there's  dry  mud  on  his 
shoes,  and  his  bright  colors  are  faded  by  weather.  That 
man  sleeps  among  the  rocks,  I'll  wager,  and  he's  in  the  saddle 
almost  constantly  too.  My  faith,  our  Fra  Diavolo  is  exquisite ! " 

The  other  of  the  two  men  was  a  withered,  diminutive,  gaunt 
and  hollow  old  Mexican.  He  quailed  like  a  frightened  miser 
before  Fra  Diavolo. 

"The  risk?  Coming  to  this  town  a  risk!"  Fra  Diavolo  was 
echoing  the  ancient  man.  "Bah,  Murguia,  you  would  haggle 
over  a  little  risk  as  though  it  were  some  poor  Confederate's 
last  bale  of  cotton.  But  I — por  Dios,  I  get  tired  of  the  moun- 
tains. And  then  I  come  to  Tampico.  Yet  you  ask  why  I 
come?  Bien,  senor  mio,  this  is  why."  A  gesture  explained. 
Fra  Diavolo  unctuously  rubbed  his  thumb  over  his  fingers. 
The  meaning  of  the  gesture  was,  "Money!" 

The  old  man  recognized  the  pantomime  and  shivered.  He 
shrank  into  his  long  black  coat  as  though  right  willingly  he 
would  shrink  away  altogether.  His  parsimony  extended  even 
to  speech.  He  pursued  his  fugitive  voice  into  the  depths  of  the 
voluminous  coat  and  there  clutched  it  as  a  coin  in  a  chest. 
Then  he  paid  it  out  as  though  it  were  a  coin  indeed. 

"But "  he  stammered. 

"No  buts,"  the  fierce  ranchero  growled  thunderously. 
"Not  one,  Don  Anastasio,  not  while  our  country  bleeds  under 
the  Austrian  tyrant's  heel,  not  while  there  yet  breathes  a  patriot 
to  scorn  peril  and  death,  so  only  that  he  get  the  sinews  of  war." 

The  curiously  unctuous  gesture  grew  menacing,  brutal. 
Don  Anastasio  twitched  and  trembled  before  it.  Under  the 
towering  and  prismatic  Fra  Diavolo  he  cowered,  an  insignifi- 
cant figure.  The  unrelieved  black  of  his  attire  accorded  with 
his  meagre  frame.  It  was  secretive,  miserly.  A  black  stock 


l6  The  Missourian 

covered  a  withered  collar.  A  dingy  silk  tile  was  tightly  packed 
over  a  rusted  black  wig.  Boots  hid  their  tops  under  the  skirts 
of  his  coat,  and  the  coat  in  turn  was  partly  concealed  under  a 
black  shawl.  But  there  was  one  incongruous  item.  Boots, 
coat,  hat  and  all  were  crusted  with  brine.  He  had  evidently 
passed  through  salty  spray,  had  braved  the  deep,  this  shrinking 
old  man  in  frayed  black.  Just  now  his  eyes,  normally  moist 
and  avaricious,  were  parched  dry  by  fear,  as  though  a  flame 
had  passed  over  them.  They  might  have  rattled  in  their 
gaping  sockets.  Fear  also  helped  him  clutch  his  voice,  which 
he  paid  out  regardless  of  expense. 

"You  know,  Don "  But  Fra  Diavolo  scowled,  and  the 

name  died  on  his  lips.  "You  know,"  he  went  on,  "why  you 
haven't  seen  me  for  so  long.  It's  the  blockade  up  there. 
It's  closer  than  ever  now.  This  time  I  waited  many  nights 
for  a  chance  to  run  in,  and  as  many  more  to  run  out  again." 

"And  you  squeezed  the  poor  devils  all  the  harder  for  your 
weevily  corn  and  shoddy  boots?" 

Jacqueline,  who  could  not  hear  a  word,  told  her  companions 
with  a  child's  expectancy  only  to  wait  and  they  would  see 
Fra  Diavolo  eat  up  the  poor  little  crow. 

The  crow,  meantime,  was  trying  to  oust  the  notion  that  had 
alighted  in  the  brain  of  Fra  Diavolo.  "Of  course  I  ought  to 
ask  the  Confederates  higher  prices  as  the  risks  increase,"  he 
said,  then  paused  and  shook  his  head  and  wig  and  hat 
like  a  mournful  pendulum.  "But  how  can  I?  The  South 
hardly  grows  any  more  cotton.  It  cannot  pay  high,  and " 

"And  that's  not  my  affair,  but "  Again  the  business  of 

thumb  and  fingers — "  but  this  is.  Quick  now ! " 

"Senor,  I— Your  Mercy  knows  that  I  always  pay  at— at  the 
usual  place — near  the  forest." 

"You  mean  that  you  won't  pay  here,  because  I  am  the  one 
in  danger  here,  and  not  you?  Bien,  you  want  a  money- 
getting  man  for  your  daughter,  eh,  Don  Anastasio,  though 


"MURGUIA" 

He  had  evidently  passed  through  salty  spray,  had  braved  the  deep,  this  shrink- 
ing old  man  in  frayed  black" 


A  Fra  Diavolo  in  the  Land  of  Roses           17 

you'll  deny  that  you  would  give  her  to  any  man  ?  Bien,  bonis- 
simo,  I  am  going  to  prove  myself  an  eligible  suitor.  In  another 
minute  Your  Mercy  will  be  frightened  enough  to  pay.  Atten- 
tion now! " 

So  saying  he  drew  a  reed  whistle  from  his  jacket.  It  was 
no  thicker  than  a  pencil,  and  not  half  so  long. 

Murguia  gripped  his  arm.  "My  daughter?"  he  cried. 
"It  has  been  weeks  since  I — but  you  must  have  seen  her 
lately.  Oh  tell  me,  senor,  there  is  no  bad  news  of  her?" 
He  had  forgotten  the  threatened  extortion.  His  voice  was 
open  too,  generous  in  its  anxiety. 

"News  of  her,  yes.  But  it  is  vague  news.  There's  a 
mystery  about  your  daughter,  Don  Anastasio." 

But  at  this  point  Fra  Diavolo  dismissed  mystery  and  daughter 
both  with  an  ugly  grimace.  Nor  would  he  say  another  word, 
for  all  the  father's  pleading.  Instead,  he  remembered  the  little 
reed  whistle  in  his  hand,  and  swung  round  to  blow  upon  it, 
in  spite  of  the  palsied  hand  clutching  at  his  arm.  But  in  turn- 
ing, he  became  aware  of  the  amused  Parisienne  watching  him. 
His  jaw  fell,  whereat  Don  Anastasio's  hand  slipped  from  his 
arm,  and  Don  Anastasio  himself  began  to  slip  away. 

"Stop!"  roared  Fra  Diavolo.  "No,  go  ahead.  Wait  at 
the  meson,  though,  until  I  come.  Wait  until  I  give  you  your 
passports." 

Then  he  turned  again  to  stare  at  the  girl  who  all  unconsciously 
had  wrought  the  poor  little  crow's  release. 


The  Violent  End  of  a  Terrible  Bandit  19 

And  a  vague  resolve  took  hold  on  him,  and  quickened  his 
breath.  Her  glance  might  have  been  invitation — Tampico  was 
not  a  drawing  room — but  still  he  hesitated.  There  was  a 
certain  hauteur  in  the  set  of  the  demoiselle's  head,  which 
outbalanced  the  mischief  in  her  eyes.  He  felt  an  indefinable 
severity  in  her  tempting  beauty,  and  this  was  new  to  his 
philosophy  of  woman.  But  as  he  drank  in  further  details, 
his  resolve  stiffened.  That  Grecian  bend  to  her  crisp  skirt 
was  evidently  an  extreme  from  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  foretelling 
the  end  of  stupendous  flounces.  Then  there  was  the  tilt  to 
the  large  hat,  and  the  veil  falling  to  the  level  of  the  eyes,  and 
the  disquieting  charm  of  both.  The  wine-red  lips  had  a  way 
of  smiling  and  curling  at  the  same  time.  And  still  again  there 
was  that  line  of  the  neck,  from  the  shoulder  up  to  where  it 
hid  under  the  soft,  old-gold  tendrils,  and  that  line  was  a  thing 
of  beauty  and  seductive  mystery.  The  dreadful  ranchero 
went  down  in  humility  before  the  splendor  of  the  tantalizing 
Parisienne. 

Michel  Ney  leaned  nearer  over  the  table.  "In  all 
conscience,  mademoiselle,  your  Fra  Diavolo  is  bizarre 
enough,"  he  said,  "but  please  don't  let  us  stir  him  up. 
Think,  if  anything  should  happen  to  you,  why  Mexico,  why 
France  would " 

"You  flatter!"  she  mocked  him.  "Only  two  empires  to 
keep  me  out  of  a  flirtation?  It's  not  enough,  Michel." 

A  shadow  fell  over  them.  "My  apologies,"  spoke  a  deep 
voice,  "but  the  senorita,  she  is  going  to  the  City,  to  the  Capital, 
perhaps  ?  " 

The  syllables  fell  one  by  one,  distinct  and  heavy.  The 
Spanish  was  elaborately  cermonious,  but  the  accent  was 
Mexican  and  almost  gutteral. 

"  L'impertinent ! "  cried  Ney,  bounding  to  his  feet.  No 
diffidence  cloyed  his  mariner  now.  He  was  on  familiar 
ground  at  last,  for  the  first  time  since  fighting  Arabs  in  Algeria. 


20 


The  Missourian 


He  was  supr-mely  happy  too,  and  as  mad  as  a  Gaul  can  be. 
"L'impertinent!"  he  repeated,  coaxingly. 

"Now  don't  be  ridiculous,  Michel,"  said  Jacqueline.  "He 
can't  understand  you." 

Moreover,  the  fame  of  the  Chasseurs,  of  those  colossal 
heroes  with  their  terrible  sabres,  of  their  legendary  prowess 
in  the  Crimea,  in  China,  in  Italy,  in  Africa,  none  of  it  seemed 
to  daunt  the  Mexican  in  the  least. 

"How,  little  Soldier-Boy  Blue?"  he  inquired  with  cumbrous 
pleasantry. 

"Alas,  senor,"  said  Jacqueline,  "he's  quite  a  little  brother 
to  dragons." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  Michel  demanded. 

"I  am  keeping  you  from  being  eaten  up,  young  sire,  but," 
and  Jacqueline's  tone  changed,  "pray  give  yourself  the  trouble 
to  be  calm.  He  only  means  a  kindly  offer  of  service,  no 
doubt,  however  strange  that  may  seem  to  your  delicacy  of 
breeding,  Monsieur  the  Duke." 

Michel  heaved  a  sigh  and — sat  down.  He  was  no  longer 
on  familiar  ground.  Then  Fra  Diavolo  proceeded  to  verify 
mademoiselle's  judgment  of  him.  Sombrero  in  hand  and 
with  a  pompous  courtliness,  he  repeated  his  natural  supposition 
that  the  senorita  was  on  her  way  to  the  City  (meaning  the  City 
of  Mexico),  and  perhaps  to  the  court  of  His  Glorious  Majesty, 
Maximiliano.  He  offered  himself,  therefore,  in  case  he  might 
have  the  felicity  to  be  of  use.  This  she  need  not  consider  as 
personal,  if  it  in  any  way  offended,  but  as  an  official  courtesy, 
since  she  saw  in  him  an  officer — an  officer  of  His  Most  Peace- 
loving  Majesty's  Contra  Guerrillas.  And  thus  to  a  conclusion, 
impressively,  laboriously. 

Jacqueline  was  less  delighted  than  at  first.  The  dash  and 
dare-deviltry  was  somehow  not  quite  sustained.  But  she- 
replied  that  he  had  surmised  correctly,  and  added  that  she 
was  Mademoiselle  d'Aumerle. 


The  Violent  End  of  a  Terrible  Bandit          21 

He  started  at  the  name,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  to  note  the 
effect  "The  Marquesa  Juana  de  Aumerle!"  he  repeated. 

"  Jeanne  d'Aumerle,  no  other,  sir,"  she  assured  him,  but  she 
watched  him  quizzically,  for  she  knew  that  another  name  was 
hovering  on  his  lips. 

"Surely  not "  he  began. 

"Si  senor,"  and  she  smiled  good  humoredly,  "I  am — 
'  Jacqueline.'" 

It  was  a  name  that  had  sifted  from  the  court  down  into  dis- 
tant plebeian  corners  of  the  Mexican  Empire,  and  it  was  tinged 
— let  us  say  so  at  once — with  the  unpleasing  hue  of  notoriety. 

"His  Ever  Considerate  Majesty  Maximiliano  would  be 
furious  if  any  harm  should  befall  Your  Ladyship,"  Fra 
Diavolo  observed,  "though,"  he  added  to  himself,  "the  em- 
press would  possibly  survive  it." 

Jacqueline  looked  at  him  sharply.  But  in  his  deferential 
manner  she  could  detect  no  hint  of  a  second  meaning.  Yet 
he  had  laid  bare  the  kernel  of  the  whole  business  that  bore 
the  name  of  Jacqueline.  She  betrayed  no  vexation.  If  this 
were  her  cross,  she  was  at  least  too  haughtily  proud  to  evade  it. 
For  a  passing  instant  only  she  looked  as  she  had  in  the  small 
boat,  when  she  had  said  that  about  the  mission  of  a  woman 
being  to  give.  The  next  moment,  and  the  mood  was  gone. 

With  knowledge  of  her  identity,  the  project  that  was  building 
in  the  stranger's  dark  mind  loomed  more  and  more  dangerously 
venturesome.  But  as  he  gazed  and  saw  how  pretty  she  was, 
audacity  marched  strong  and  he  wavered  no  longer.  And 
when  she  thanked  him,  and  added  that  the  ship  was  only 
waiting  until  she  finished  her  coffee,  he  roused  himself  and 
drove  with  hard  will  to  his  purpose. 

"Going  on  by  water?"  he  protested.  "But  Senorita  de 
Aumerle,  we  are  in  the  season  for  northers.  Look,  those 
mean  another  storm,"  and  he  pointed  overhead,  to  harmless 
little  cotton  bunches  of  clouds  scurrying  away  to  the  horizon. 


22  The  Missourian 

"Eh  bien,"  returned  the  senorita,  "what  would  you?" 

He  would,  it  appeared,  that  she  go  by  land.  He  hoped 
that  she  did  not  consider  his  offer  an  empty  politeness,  tendered 
only  in  the  expectation  of  its  being  refused.  He  so  contrived, 
however,  that  that  was  precisely  the  way  his  offer  might  be 
interpreted,  and  in  that  he  was  deeper  than  she  imagined. 
She  grew  interested  in  the  possibility  of  finishing  her  journey 
overland.  He  informed  her  that  one  could  travel  a  day  west- 
ward on  horseback  to  a  place  called  Valles,  then  take  the  City 
of  Mexico  and  Monterey  stage,  and  reach  the  City  in  two  days, 
which  was  much  shorter  than  by  way  of  the  sea  and  Vera 
Cruz.  He  spoke  as  dispassionately  as  a  time  table.  But 
he  noted  that  she  clothed  his  skeleton  data  with  a  personal 
interest.  And  Ney  also,  who  had  caught  the  drift  of  things, 
saw  new  mischief  brewing  in  her  gray  eyes. 

"You  really  are  not  thinking,  mademoiselle "  he  inter- 
rupted. 

"And  why  not,  pray?" 

"Why  not?    Why — uh — the  bandits,  of  course." 

Jacqueline  turned  to  the  stranger  who  served  as  itinerary 
folder.  Would  he  dispose  of  the  childish  objection?  He 
would.  But  he  wondered  why  the  senor  had  not  mentioned 
one  who  was  the  most  to  be  feared  of  all  bandits;  in  fact,  the 
most  implacable  of  the  rebels  still  battling  against  His  Truly 
Mexican  Majesty.  The  stranger  paused  expectantly,  but  as 
Ney  seemed  to  recognize  no  particular  outlaw  from  the  de- 
scription, he  went  on  with  a  deepening  frown,  " and  who 

is  none  other  than  the  Capitan  Don  Rodrigo  Galan." 

"Who's  he?"  Ney  inquired,  willing  enough  to  ha,ve  any 
scarecrow  whatever  for  Jacqueline. 

"Is  it  possible? — Your  Mercy  does  not  know?" 

Ney  pleaded  that  he  had  never  been  in  the  country  before. 

"But  surely,"  the  Mexican  objected,  "Don  Rodrigo  is  a 
household  word  throughout  Europe?" 


The  Violent  End  of  a  Terrible  Bandit          23 

"He  has  certainly  been  heard  of  in  Mexico,"  said  Jacque- 
line, whereat  Fra  Diavolo  turned  to  her  gratefully.  "But," 
she  added,  "Monsieur  Ney  will  now  find  in  him  another  objec- 
tion to  my  journeying  overland." 

The  ardor  of  the  bandit's  eulogist  faltered.  "The  serior 
might  indeed,"  he  confessed,  "only,"  and  here  he  hesitated 
like  a  man  contemplating  suicide,  "only,  Don  Rodrigo  has 
been — yes,  he's  been  shot,  from  ambush;  and  his  band — yes, 
his  band  is  scattered  forever." 

Having  achieved  the  painful  massacre,  Fra  Diavolo  traveled 
on  more  easily  to  assure  the  senorita  that  since  then  the  country 
had  been  entirely  pacified.  Ney,  however,  was  not.  How 
did  they  know  the  story  was  true  ? .  And  if  it  was,  he  was 
sorry.  He  would  enjoy  meeting  the  terrible  and  provokingly 
deceased  Monsieur  Rodrigue,  if  only  to  teach  him  that  being 
terrible  is  not  good  manners.  But,  did  they  know  for  certain 
that  the  bandit  was  dead? 

"We  do,"  said  the  Mexican,  again  like  a  reluctant  suicide, 
"because  I  killed  him  myself." 

"But  how  are  we  to  know,  sir,"  Ney  persisted,  "that  you  are 
so  terrible  on  your  own  account?" 

"My  identification,  you  mean?  Bueno,  it  is  only  just. 
Here,  this  may  do,"  and  the  ranchero  drew  a  paper  from  his 
money  belt  and  handed  it  to  Jacqueline.  The  paper  was  an 
order  addressed  to  one  Captain  Maurel,  who  was  to  proceed 
with  his  company  to  the  district  of  Tampico,  and  there  to  take 
and  to  shoot  the  guerrilla  thief,  Rodrigo  Galan,  and  all  his 
band,  who  infested  the  district  aforesaid,  known  as  the 
Huasteca.  The  Captain  Maurel  would  take  note  that  this 
Rodrigo  Gal£n  frequented  the  very  city  of  Tampico  itself,  with 
an  impudence  to  be  punished  at  all  hazards.  Signed:  Dupin, 
Colonel  of  His  Majesty's  Contra  Guerrillas. 

"Colonel  Dupin?"  Jacqueline  repeated  with  a  wry  mouth. 

Dupin,  the  Contra-Guerrilla  chief,  was  a  brave  Frenchman. 


24  The  Missourian 

But  the  quality  of  his  mercy  had  made  his  name  a  shudder  on 
the  lips  of  all  men,  his  own  countrymen  included. 

"Yes,"  said  Fra  Diavolo  between  his  teeth,  "Mi  Coronel 
Dupin— the  Tiger." 

"So  he  is  called,  I  know,"  said  Jacqueline.  "And  you,  it 
appears,  are  Captain  Maurel — Maurel,  but  that  is  French?" 

"The  way  it  is  spelled  on  the  paper,  yes.  But  my  Coronel, 
being  French,  made  a  mistake.  He  should  have  written  it 
'Morel.'"' 

"No  matter,"  said  Jacqueline,  "for  you  are  only  a  trite,  con- 
ventional officer,  after  all.  But  how  much  merrier  it  would  be 

if  you  were — were "  and  suddenly  she  leaned  over  the  paper 

and  placed  an  impetuous  finger  on  the  bandit's  name.  "So," 
she  continued  wistfully,  "there  is  no  danger.  We  ride,  we 
take  a  stage.  It  is  tame.  I  say  it  is  tame,  monsieur!" 

Captain  Maurel,  or  Morel,  desired  to  add  that  there  was  a 
trader  who  owned  an  hacienda  in  the  interior,  and  that  this 
trader  was  starting  for  his  plantation  the  very  next  morning; 
all  of  which  was  very  convenient,  because  the  trader  had  extra 
horses,  and  he,  Captain  Morel,  had  a  certain  influence  with 
the  trader.  The  senorita's  party  could  travel  with  his  friend's 
caravan  as  far  as  the  stage. 

"Voila!"  cried  Jacqueline.     "It  is  arranged!" 

"Diable,  it  is  not!"    Michel  was  on  his  feet  again. 

His  wayward  charge  looked  him  over  reflectively.  "Our 
Mars  in  his  baby  clothes  again,"  said  she,  as  a  fond,  despairing 
mother  with  an  incorrigible  child. 

The  Mexican  had  shown  himself  hostile  and  ready.  But 
seeing  Jacqueline's  coolness  he  melted  out  of  his  somewhat 
theatrical  bristling,  lest  her  sarcasm  veer  toward  himself. 

The  tempestuous  Mars,  however,  was  beyond  the  range  of 
scorn.  He  kept  one  stubborn  purpose  before  him:  "We  go 
back  to  the  ship,  or"— he  took  breath  where  he  meant  to  put 
a  handsome  oath — "or— it's  a  fight!" 


The  Violent  End  of  a  Terrible  Bandit          25 

"There,  there,"  said  Jacqueline  gently.  "Besides,  are  you 
not  to  go  with  me  just  the  same?" 

Ney  turned  to  the  stranger.  "I  ask  you  to  withdraw,  sir, 
both  yourself  and  your  offers,  because  you're  only  meddling 
here." 

The  intruder  grew  rigid  straightway.  "I  am  not  one  to  take 
back  an  offer,"  he  stated  loftily.  His  voice  'was  weighted  to  a 
heavier  guttural,  and  in  the  deep  staccatos  harshly  chopped 
off,  and  each  falling  with  a  thud,  there  was  a  quality  so  ominous 
and  deadly  that  even  Jacqueline  had  her  doubts.  But  she 
would  not  admit  them,  to  herself  least  of  all.  "And  I,  Monsieur 
Ney,"  she  said,  "have  decided  to  accept,"  though  she  had  not 
really,  until  that  very  moment. 

Ney  turned  to  the  one  sailor  with  him.  "Run  like  fury!" 
he  whispered.  "Bring  the  others!" 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  the  Mexican. 

As  he  doubtless  intended,  Fra  Diavolo's  words  sounded 
like  the  low  growl  of  an  awakening  lion,  and  at  the  same 
time  he  brought  forth  the  reed  whistle  and  put  it  to  his  lips. 
The  note  that  came  was  faint,  like  that  of  a  distant  bird  in  the 
forest. 

Ney  smiled.  It  seemed  inadequate,  silly.  Lately  he  had 
become  familiar  with  the  sonorous  foghorn,  and  besides,  he 
was  not  a  woodsman  and  knew  nothing  of  the  penetration  of 
the  thin,  vibrant  signal.  When  the  sailors  should  come,  he 
would  take  the  troublesome  fellow  to  the  commander  of  the 
garrison  on  the  hill.  But  then  a  weight  fell  on  him  from 
behind,  and  uncleanliness  and  garlic  and  the  sweating  of  flesh 
filled  his  nostrils.  Bare  arms  around  his  neck  jerked  up  his 
chin,  according  to  the  stroke  of  Pere  Francois.  Other  writhing 
arms  twined  about  his  waist,  his  legs,  his  ankles;  and  hands 
clutched  after  his  sabre  and  pistol.  But  at  last  he  stood  free, 
and  glared  about  him,  disarmed  and  helpless.  Jacqueline's 
infernal  Fra  Diavolo  was  surveying  him  from  the  closed  door 


2 6  The  Missourian 

of  the  Cafe,  behind  which  he  had  swept  the  two  women.  His 
stiff  pose  had  relaxed,  and  he  was  even  smiling.  He  waved 
his  hand  apologetically  over  his  followers.  "His  Exceeding 
Christian  Majesty's  most  valiant  contra  guerrillas,"  he  ex- 
plained. 

The  so-called  contra  guerrillas  were  villainous  wretches,  at 
the  gentlest  estimate.  Their  scanty,  ragged  and  stained  cot- 
ton manta  flapped  loosely  over  their  skin,  which  was  scaly  and 
as  tough  as  old  leather.  Most  of  them  had  knives.  A  few 
carried  muskets,  long,  rusty,  muzzle-loading  weapons  that 
threw  a  slug  of  marble  size. 

Almost  at  once  the  burly  French  sailors  appeared,  but  Fra 
Diavolo's  little  demons  closed  in  behind  them  and  around  them 
and  so  kept  them  from  reaching  Ney.  Thus  both  sides  circled 
about  and  moved  cautiously,  waiting  for  the  trouble  to  begin 
in  earnest.  Michel  only  panted,  until  at  last  he  bethought 
himself  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  strategy. 

"One  of  you  out  there,"  he  shouted  in  French,  "quick,  go 
to  the  fort.  Bring  the  soldiers !" 

The  Mexicans  did  not  understand,  and  before  they  could 
prevent,  a  sailor  had  taken  to  his  heels. 

Then  Fra  Diavolo  comprehended.  "You  idiots!"  he 
bellowed.  "You— Pedro!  Catch  him!  Faster!— Catch  him, 
I  say!" 

A  little  demon  darted  away  in  pursuit  of  the  sailor.  Obvi- 
ously, the  situation  hung  on  the  swifter  in  the  race. 


CHAPTER  IV 
LA  Luz,  BLOCKADE  RUNNER 

"  For  now,  these  hot  days,  is  the  mad  blood  stirring." 

— Romeo  and  Juliet. 

"MESON"  is  Spanish  for  hostelry.  In  the  ancient  cara- 
vansaries, like  the  one  at  Bethlehem  sacred  to  the  Christ  child, 
the  same  accommodations  were  meted  out  to  man  and  beast 
alike.  More  recently  there  are  "hotels,"  which  distinguish  a 
man  from  his  beast,  usually;  though  sometimes  undeservedly. 
And  so  the  word  "meson"  got  left  behind  along  with  its  primi- 
tive meaning.  But  in  Mexico  word  and  meaning  still  go 
together  to  this  day,  and  both  described  pretty  well  the  four 
walls  in  Tampico  where  Anastasio  Murguia  tarried.  Excepting 
the  porter's  lodge  at  the  entrance,  the  establishment's  only 
roof  formed  an  open  corridor  against  one  of  the  walls,  in  which 
species  of  cloister  the  human  guests  were  privileged  to  spread 
their  blankets  in  case  of  rain  or  an  icy  norther.  Otherwise 
they  slept  in  the  sky-vaulted  court  among  the  four-footed 
transients,  for  what  men  on  the  torrid  Gulf  coast  would  allow 
his  beast  more  fresh  air  than  himself  ? 

Don  Anastasio's  caravan  filled  the  meson  with  an  unflurried, 
hay-chewing  promise  of  bustle-to-be  at  some  future  date. 
Except  for  the  camels  and  costume  lacking,  the  Mexican  trader 
might  have  been  a  sheik  in  an  oasis  khan.  His  bales  littered 
the  patio's  stone  pavement.  They  were  of  cotton  mostly, 
which  he  had  bought  in  the  Confederate  States,  in  exchange 
for  necessities  of  warfare  and  life.  Complacent  burros  and 


2g  The  Missourian 

horses  were  juggling  into  their  mouths  some  final  grains  from 
the  sacks  over  their  noses.  Peon  servants  stolidly  busied 
themselves  around  charcoal  braziers. 

An  American  leaned  in  the  cavernous  doorway.  The 
tarnished  insignia  on  his  collar  indicated  an  officer  of  Con- 
federate cavalry.  He  was  smoking  a  cob  pipe,  of  which  he 
seemed  quite  fond.  And  as  a  return  for  such  affection,  the 
venerable  Missouri  meerschaum  lent  to  its  young  master  an 
air  that  was  comfortably  domestic  and  peaceable.  The 
trooper  wore  a  woolen  shirt.  His  boots  were  rough  and  heavy. 
Hard  wear  and  weather  had  softened  his  gray  hat  into  a  dis- 
reputable slouch  affair.  A  broad  black-leather  belt  sagged 
about  his  middle  from  the  weight  of  cartridges.  Under  his 
ribs  on  either  side  protruded  the  butt  of  a  navy-six,  thrust  in 
between  shirt  and  trousers.  He  watched  with  dozing  interest 
the  muleteers  inside  as  they  roped  up  straw,  tightened  straps, 
and  otherwise  got  ready  for  departure.  Then  Anastasio 
Murguia  appeared  coming  up  the  street,  just  from  his  lately 
recorded  interview  with  Fra  Diavolo.  The  weazened  little  old 
Mexican  was  in  a  fretful  humor,  and  his  glance  at  the  lounging 
Southerner  was  anything  but  cordial.  He  would  have  passed 
on  into  the  mesdn,  but  the  other  stopped  him. 

"Well,  Murgie,  are  we  projecting  to  start  to-night?"  the 
trooper  inquired  in  English.  "Eh? — What  say?" 

What  Don  Anastasio  had  said  was  nothing  at  all,  but  being 
thus  urged,  he  mumbled  a  negative. 

"Not  starting  to-night?"  his  questioner  repeated.  "Now, 
why  don't  we? — What? — Lordsake,  man,  dive!  Bring  up 
that  voice  there  for  once!" 

Murguia  sank  to  the  chin  in  his  black  coat.  Glancing 
apprehensively  at  the  cavalryman's  long  arm,  he  edged  away 
to  the  farther  side  of  the  doorway.  Experience  had  accus- 
tomed the  ancient  trader  to  despots,  but  in  this  cheery  youngster 
of  a  Gringo  the  regal  title  was  not  clear,  which  simply  made 


La  Luz,  Blockade  Runner  2O 

tyranny  the  more  irksome.  The  Gringo  was  the  veriest  usurper. 
He  did  not  justify  his  sway  by  the  least  ferocity.  He  never 
uttered  a  threat.  Where,  then,  was  his  right  to  the  sceptre  he 
wielded  so  nonchalantly?  Were  there  only  some  tangible 
jeopardy  to  his  pelt,  Murguia  would  have  been  more  resigned. 
But  his  latest  autocrat  was  only  matter-of-fact,  blithely  and 
aggravatingly  matter-of-fact. 

By  every  rule  governing  man's  attitude  toward  man,  the 
Senor  Don  should  have  been  the  bully,  and  the  youngster  the 
cringing  sycophant.  For  since  their  very  odd  meeting  two 
weeks  before,  the  tyrant  had  been  in  the  power  of  the  tyran- 
nized. It  began  on  Murguia's  own  boat,  where  Murguia  was 
absolute.  Any  time  after  leaving  Mobile  he  had  merely  to 
follow  his  inclinations  and  order  the  fellow  thrown  overboard. 
Yet  it  was  the  soldier  boy  who  had  assumed  the  ascendancy, 
and  it  could  not  have  been  more  natural  were  the  boat's  owner 
a  scullion  and  the  intruder  an  admiral. 

"And  why  don't  we  start  to-night?"  the  complacent  usurper 
demanded  in  that  plaintive  drawl  which  so  irritated  the  other. 
"You  went  for  your  passports,  didn't  you  get  'em?" 

"Si — si,  senor." 

"Good!  Then  to-night  it  is,  eh? — Can't  you  speak  out,  my 
gracious!" 

"  You  might  go  to-night,"  the  trader  suggested  timidly. 

"Alone? — N-o,  parting  isn't  the  sweet  sorrow  it's  cracked 
up  to  be.  Besides,  I  don't  know  the  roads,  but  of  course 
that's  nothing  to  losing  a  jovial  old  mate  like  you,  Murgie." 

Don  Anastasio  smirked  at  the  pleasantry.  "But  7  can't  go 
to-night,  senor.  I — I  have  to  see — someone — first." 

The  trooper  betrayed  the  least  impatience.  "Now  look 
here — usurer,  viper,  blanketed  thief,  honorable  sir,  you  know 
I'm  in  a  hurry!" 

That  his  haste  could  be  any  concern  of  Murguia's  was  pre- 
posterous, and  Murguia  would  have  liked  nothing  better  than 


30  The  Missourian 

to  tell  him  so.  But  he  did  not,  and  suffered  inwardly  because 
somehow  he  could  not.  He  harbored  a  dim  but  dreadful 
picture  of  what  might  happen  should  the  amiable  cavalryman 
actually  lose  his  temper.  Loss  of  patience  had  menace  enough, 
though  the  Southerner  had  not  stirred  from  his  lazy  posture 
in  the  doorway  nor  overlooked  a  single  contented  puff  from 
the  Missouri  meerschaum. 

"I'm  sorry,"  Don  Anastasio  paid  out  the  hard-found  words 
through  his  teeth,  "but  possibly  we  can  leave  to-morrow. 
Will,  will  that  suit  Your  Mercy,  Senor  Coronel?" 

"Oh  perhaps.  Anyhow,  don't  go  to  forgetting,  now,  that 
I'm  in  a  hurry." 

Don  Anastasio  breathed  easier,  and  he  even  grew  so  bold  as 
to  recall  a  certain  suspicion  he  had  entertained.  "Your  errand 
down  here  must  be  of  considerable  importance,  Senor  Coro- 
nel?" he  ventured. 

"There  you  are  again — crawling  again."  It  was  evident 
that  the  trooper's  normal  condition  was  a  great,  hearty,  calm 
good  humor. 

But  the  Mexican's  shriveled  features  grew  sharper  and  his 
moist  eyes  more  prying.  His  suspicion  had  tormented  him 
ever  since  fate  had  thrown  the  Confederate  in  his  way.  This 
had  happened  one  stormy  night  at  Mobile.  The  night  in 
question  was  pitch  dark.  The  tide  was  favorable,  too,  but  a 
norther  was  blowing,  the  very  same  norther  that  had  turned 
the  Imperatrice  Eugenie  off  her  course.  Murguia's  skipper 
had  chosen  the  hour  of  midnight  for  running  the  Federal  block- 
ade outside,  and  he  had  already  given  the  order  to  cast  off, 
when  a  horseman  in  a  cape  overcoat  rode  to  the  edge  of  the 
wharf. 

"Wait  there!"  the  horseman  trumpeted  through  his  hand. 

It  was  the  first  word  Murguia  had  ever  heard  from  his  future 
tyrant,  and  even  then  the  cool  tone  of  authority  nettled  him. 
But  he  reflected  that  here  might  be  a  passenger,  and  a  passenger 


La  Luz,  Blockade  Runner  31 

through  the  blockade  usually  meant  five  hundred  dollars  in 
gold.     He  ordered  the  plank  held  for  a  moment. 

"They  tell  me — whoa,  Demijohn! — you  are  going  to  Tam- 
pico?"  hallooed  the  same  voice. 

"Yes,"  Murguia  answered,  and  was  going  to  name  his  price, 
when  without  more  ado  the  cavalier  rode  across,  dismounted 
on  the  deck,  and  tossed  his  bridle  to  the  first  sailor. 

"Ca-rai!"  sneered  the  astonished  Mexican,  "one  would  think 
you'd  just  reached  your  own  barnyard,  senor." 

"My  own  barnyard?"  echoed  the  stranger  bitterly.  "I 
haven't  seen  my  own  barnyard,  or  anything  that  is  mine,  during 
these  four  years  past.  But  you  were  about  to  start?" 

"Not  so  fast,  senor.  Fare  in  advance,  seven  hundred 
dollars."  Murguia  looked  for  the  haggling  to  come  next,  but 
somehow  the  sniff  he  heard  was  not  promising. 

"Usurer,  viper,  blanketed  thief,  benevolent  old  rascal,"  the 
trooper  enumerated  as  courteously  as  "Senor  Don"  or  "Your 
Mercy,"  "you  don't  surprise  me  a  bit,  not  when  you  charge  us 
three  thousand  dollars  gold  for  freight  on  a  trunk  of  quinine!" 

"G-g-get  back  on  your  horse!     G-get  off  this  boat!" 

But  the  intruder  calmly  drew  off  his  great  coat,  and  Murguia 
saw  the  butts  of  pistols  at  his  waist.  Yet  they  had  no  reference 
to  the  removal  of  the  cape.  The  latter  was  a  simple  act  of 
making  oneself  at  home. 

"I  reckon,"  said  the  newcomer  cheerily,  "there's  no  question 
of  fare.  Here,  I've  got  a  pass." 

By  a  lantern  Murguia  read  the  paper  handed  him.  It  was 
signed:  "Jefferson  Davis,  President  C.  S.  A."  Therein  Mr. 
Anastasio  Murguia  or  any  other  blockade  runner  was  required 
on  demand  of  the  bearer,  Lieut.  Col.  Jno.  D.  Driscoll,  to  trans- 
port the  said  Driscoll  to  that  part  outside  the  Confederacy 
which  might  happen  to  be  the  blockade  runner's 
destination. 

The  peevish  old  man  scowled,  hesitated.    He  read  the  order 


32  The  Missourian 

again,  hesitated  again,  and  at  last  handed  it  back,  his  mind 

made  up. 
"Have  the  goodness,  senor,  to  remove  yourself  from  my 

boat." 

But  the  lieutenant  colonel  placidly  inquired,  "Carry  any 
government  cotton  this  trip?  No,  I  know  you  don't.  Then 
you're  in  debt  to  the  government  ?  Correct.  So  I  reckon  you'll 
carry  me  in  place  of  the  cotton." 

The  demand  was  just.  For  their  golden  privileges  the 
blockade  runners  took  a  portion  of  their  cargo  on  government 
account.  But  Murguia  knew  that  the  army  of  Northern  Vir- 
ginia must  surrender  soon.  The  Confederacy  was  really  at 
an  end,  and  this  would  be  his  last  trip.  Why,  then,  pay  a 
dying  creditor? 

"The  favor,  senor !    Or  must  I  have  you  kicked  off  ? " 

The  senor,  however,  with  his  charger  behind  him,  was 
foraging  over  the  deck  to  find  a  stall,  and  in  a  fury  Murguia 
plucked  at  his  sleeve.  But  Driscoll  wheeled  of  his  own  accord 
to  inquire  about  horse  accommodations,  and  then  the  Mexican 
wondered  in  his  timid  soul  at  his  own  boldness.  It  loomed 
before  him  as  unutterably  more  preposterous  than  the  lone 
wanderer's  preposterous  act  of  taking  possession  single  handed. 
Yet  the  lone  wanderer  was  only  gazing  down  on  him  very 
benignly.  But  what  experience  of  violent  life,  of  cool  dealing 
in  death,  did  poor  Don  Anastasio  behold  on  those  youthful 
features!  In  a  panic  he  realized  certain  vital  things.  To  evade 
his  debt  to  a  government  that  could  never  claim  it  was  very 
seductive  and  business-like.  But  there  were  the  Confederate 
batteries  on  the  wharf,  and  a  line  of  torpedoes  across  the  entrance 
to  the  bay.  There  were  the  Federal  cannon  of  Fort  Morgan, 
just  beyond.  His  passenger,  if  rejected,  had  only  to  give  the 
word,  and  there  would  be  some  right  eager  shooting.  And  as 
the  Southerners  shot,  in  their  present  mood,  they  would  remem- 
ber various  matters.  They  would  remember  the  treasure  he 


La  Luz,  Blockade  Runner  33 

had  wrung  from  their  distress;  the  cotton  bought  for  ten 
cents  and  sold  abroad  for  a  dollar;  the  nitre,  the  gunpowder, 
the  clothing  and  medicines,  rated  so  mercilessly  dear;  the 
profits  boosted  a  thousand  per  cent.,  though  an  army  was 
starving. 

And  yet  Murguia  could  not  lift  his  soul  from  the  few  hundred 
dollars  of  passage  money.  He  almost  had  his  man  by  the 
sleeve  again.  But  no,  there  were  four  hundred  odd  bales  on 
board.  There  was  La  Luz,  his  fleet  £20,000  Clyde-built  side- 
wheeler,  bought  out  of  the  proceeds  of  a  single  former  trip. 
Even  if  torpedoes  and  cannon  missed,  the  Fort  and  blockaders 
outside  would  be  thankful  for  the  alarm,  and  make  sure  of  him. 
A  few  hundred  dollars  was  an  amount,  but  the  benignity  in 
Driscoll's  whimsical  brown  eyes  meant  a  great  deal  more,  such 
for  instance,  as  cotton  and  steamer  and  Don  Anastasio  plunging 
to  the  bottom  of  the  bay. 

"Oh  I  s'y,  sir,"  interrupted  a  voice  in  vigorous  cockney, 
"this  'ere  tide  ain't  in  the  'abit  o'  waitin'.  If  we  go  to-night, 
we  go  this  minute,  sir!"  It  was  the  skipper,  and  the  skipper's 
ultimatum. 

"W'y  yes,"  drawled  the  lieutenant  colonel,  "let's  be  march- 
ing. I  forgot  to  tell  you,  I'm  in  a  hurry.  Come  on,  Demijohn," 
and  man  and  horse  went  in  search  of  beds. 

Murguia  looked  venomous,  but  the  plank  was  drawn  on 
board. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  STORM  CENTRE 

•* 

"God  forbid  I  should  be  so  bold  as  to  press  to  heaven  in  my 
young  days." — Titus  Andronicus.  .  , 

THE  feathering  buckets  of  the  paddle  wheels  began  to  turn; 
and  La  Luz,  long,  low,  narrow,  and  a  racer,  moved  noiselessly 
out  into  the  bay.  A  few  yards  only,  and  the  loungers  on  the 
wharf  could  neither  see  nor  hear  her.  Except  for  the  muffled 
binnacle  light,  there  was  neither  a  ray  nor  a  spark.  The 
anthracite  gave  almost  no  smoke.  The  hull,  hardly  three 
feet  above  water  amidships,  was  "Union  color,"  and  invisible 
at  night.  The  waves  slipped  over  her  like  oil,  without  the 
sound  of  a  splash,  almost  without  breaking.  She  glided  along 
more  and  more  swiftly.  The  silent  engines  betrayed  no  hint 
of  their  power,  though  breathing  a  force  to  drive  a  vessel 
five  times  as  large. 

There  were  many  entrances  to  the  bay,  and  Murguia  had 
had  his  steamer  built  of  light  draft  especially,  to  profit  by  any 
outlet  offering  least  danger"  from  the  vigilant  patrol  outside. 
The  skipper  had  already  chosen  his  course.  Because  of  the 
gale,  he  calculated  that  the  blockaders  would  get  a  considerable 
offing,  lest  they  flounder  mid  the  shoal  waters  inshore.  He 
knew  too,  even  if  it  were  not  so  dark,  that  a  long,  foamy  line 
of  surf  curtained  the  bay  from  any  watchful  eye  on  the  open 
sea.  By  the  time  she  reached  the  beach  channels,  La  Luz  had 
full  speed  on.  Then,  knifing  the  higher  and  higher  waves, 
she  made  a  dash  for  it. 

34 


The  Storm  Centre  35 

For  a  slender  steamer,  and  in  such  weather,  the  risk  was 
desperate.  The  skipper  hoped  that  the  blockaders  would 
never  credit  him  with  quite  the  insanity  of  it.  He  held  the 
wheel  himself,  while  beside  him  his  keenest-sighted  quarter- 
master stood  guard  with  a  glass.  The  agitated  owner  was 
there  also,  huddled  in  his  black  shawl,  but  the  binoculars 
glued  to  his  eyes  trembled  so  that  he  could  hardly  have  seen 
a  full-rigged  armada  in  broad  daylight. 

Suddenly  the  quartermaster  touched  the  skipper's  arm  under 
the  shrouded  binnacle.  "I  s'y  sir,"  he  whispered  excitedly, 
"they're — there!  There,  anchored  at  the  inshore  station, 
just  off  the  bar!  My  eye,  but  hain't  they  beastly  idiots? 
They'll  smash  to  pieces." 

The  skipper  looked  and  Murguia  tried  to  look.  But  they 
saw  nothing.  Except  for  the  booming  of  the  surf,  they  might 
have  been  on  a  landless  sea,  alone  in  the  black  night.  Don 
Anastasio  was  shaking  at  such  a  rate  that  his  two  companions 
in  the  dark  wheel-house  were  conscious  of  it.  He  cursed  the 
quartermaster  for  a  pessimist.  The  skipper,  though,  was 
brave  enough  to  believe. 

"We're  expected,  that's  gospel,"  he  muttered.  But  he  did 
not  change  his  course,  for  he  knew  that  on  his  other  side  there 
was  a  second  fleet,  tugging  at  drift  leads  off  the  entrance  to 
the  main  ship  channel.  It  was  near  hopeless,  but  he  meant 
to  dart  between  the  two. 

"Now  for  a  reception  as  'ull  touch  us  to  the  quick,  as  Loo-ee 

Sixteenth  said "  The  skipper  cut  himself  short.  "Aye, 

aye,  sir,"  he  cried,  "they've  spied  us!" 

"They  haven't!"  groaned  Murguia.     "How  could  they?" 

"  'T'aint  important  now,  sir,  how  they  could.  There  might 
be  a  gleam  in  our  wake.  But  any'ow  they  'ave." 

They  had  indeed.  Less  than  a  mile  to  port  there  suddenly 
appeared  two  red  lights,  two  sullen  eyeballs  of  fire.  Then,  a 
rocket  cleft  the  darkness,  its  slant  proclaiming  the  fugitive's 


,g  The  Missourian 

course.  Hurriedly  the  Luz's  quartermaster  sent  up  a  rocket 
also,  but  in  the  opposite  direction.  It  was  useless.  A  third 
rocket  from  the  signaling  blockader  contradicted  him. 

"We're  bein'  chased,"  announced  the  skipper.  "One  of 
'em  'as  slipped  her  chain  and  got  off." 

As  La  Luz  had  gained  the  open,  the  skipper  let  his 
quartermaster  take  the  wheel.  "'Old  her  to  the  wind,  lad," 
he  cautioned.  "A  beam  sea  'ud  swamp  us."  Next  he 
whistled  down  to  the  engine  room.  They  were  to  stoke  with 
turpentine  and  cotton.  At  once  Murguia  began  to  fidget. 
"It,  it  will  make  smoke,"  he  whined. 

"An'  steam.    We're  seen  a'ready,  ain't  we,  sir?" 

"But  it  costs  more." 

"Not  if  it  clears  us.  Soft  coal  'ud  seem  bloomin'  expensive, 
sir,  if  we  got  over'auled." 

The  race  was  on.  In  smooth  water  it  would  scarcely  have 
been  one.  But  the  boiling  fury  cut  knots  from  the  steamer's 
speed,  while  the  Federals  sent  after  her  only  their  sailing 
vessels,  which  with  all  canvas  spread  bent  low  to  the  chase. 
They  had,  however,  used  up  time  to  unreef;  and  with  the 
terrific  rolling  they  would  not  dare  cast  loose  a  gun. 

When  morning  dawned  thickly  behind  the  leaden  sky,  the 
three  men  in  the  wheelhouse  made  out  a  top-gallant  sail 
against  the  horizon.  "By  noon,"  said  the  skipper,  "the 
beggars  'ull  'ave  us." 

He  was  a  small  pert  man,  was  the  skipper,  with  a  sharp 
face,  an  edge  to  his  voice,  and  two  little  points  of  eyes  that 
glowed.  Salt  water  had  not  drenched  his  dry  cockney  speech, 
and  he  was  a  gamin  of  the  sea  and  as  keen  to  its  gammon 
ways  as  in  boyhood  he  had  been  to  those  of  pubs  around  the 
old  Bow  Bells. 

Don  Anastasio  heard  the  verdict  with  a  shudder.  Given  the 
nature  of  the  man,  his  mortal  fear  was  the  dreadfullest  torture 
that  could  be  devised.  The  game  little  cockney  peered  into 


The  Storm  Centre  37 

his  distorted  face,  and  wondered.  Never  was  there  a  more 
pitiful  coward,  and  yet  the  craven  had  passed  through  the  same 
agony  full  twenty  times  during  the  last  few  years.  Murguia 
knew  nothing  of  the  noble  motives  which  make  a  man  stronger 
than  terror,  but  he  did  know  a  miser's  passion.  He  begrudged 
even  the  costlier  fuel  that  was  their  hope  of  safety. 

"Your  non-payin'  guest,  sir,"  said  the  skipper,  pointing 
downward.  "  'Spose  he  wants  to  buy  them  'ere  smokestacks  ?  " 

The  trooper  had  appeared  on  deck.  He  was  clinging  to  a 
cleat  in  the  rail  with  a  landsman's  awkwardness  and  with 
the  cunning  object  of  proving  to  the  ship  that  he  wasn't  to  be 
surprised  off  his  feet  another  time.  He  swayed  grandly, 
generously,  for'ard  and  aft,  like  a  metronome  set  at  a  large, 
sweeping  rhythm.  Every  billow  shot  a  flood  from  stern  to 
bow,  and  swished  past  his  boots,  but  he  was  heedless  of  that. 
His  head  was  thrown  back,  a  head  of  stubborn  black  curling 
tufts,  and  he  seemed  absorbed  in  the  Luz's  two  funnels.  They 
gave  out  little  smoke  now,  for  with  daylight  the  skipper  had 
changed  to  anthracite  again,  in  the  forlorn  hope  of  hiding 
their  trail.  But  it  had  lessened  their  steam  pressure,  and  in 
a  short  time,  the  skipper  feared,  the  pursuer  would  make  them 
out,  hull  and  all. 

A  moment  later  the  passenger  climbed  into  the  wheelhouse. 
"Look  here — Mur — Murgie,"  he  said,  "for  a  seven-hundred- 
dollar  rate  that  was  a  toler'ble  unsteady  cabin  I  had  last  night; 
restless,  sort  of.  It's  mighty  curious,  but  something's  been 
acting  up  inside  of  me,  and  I  can't  seem  to  make  out  what 
it  is!"  As  he  spoke,  he  glanced  inquiringly  from  owner  to 
skipper.  He  might  have  been  another  Panurge  envying  the 
planter  of  cabbages  who  had  one  foot  on  solid  earth  and  the 
other  not  far  away.  He  looked  pale. 

It  afforded  Don  Anastasio  little  satisfaction  to  find  a  young 
man  not  more  than  twenty-two  or  three.  Without  his  great 
coat  the  Southerner  proved  lithe  rather  than  stocky.  There 


,g  The  Missourian 

was  even  an  elusive  angular  effect  to  him.  Yet  the  night  before 
he  had  looked  as  wide  and  imposing  as  the  general  of  an  army. 
His  cheeks  were  smooth,  but  they  were  tight  and  hard  and 
brown  from  the  weathering  of  sun  and  blizzard.  His  features 
had  that  decisive  cleanliness  of  line  which  makes  for  strong 
beauty  in  a  man.  Evidently  nature  had  molded  them  boyishly 
soft  and  refined  at  first,  but  in  the  hardening  of  life,  of  a  life 
such  as  his,  they  had  become  rugged.  Most  of  all,  the  face 
was  unmistakably  American.  The  large  mouth  had  that 
dry,  whimsical  set,  and  that  sensitiveness  to  twitching  at  the 
corners,  which  foretells  a  smile.  The  brown  eyes  sparkled 
quietly,  and  contour  and  expression  generally  were  those  which 
one  may  find  on  a  Missourian,  or  a  Texan,  or  on  a  man  from 
Montana,  or  even  on  a  New  Yorker  born;  but  never,  any- 
where, except  on  an  American.  Whatever  is  said  to  the  con- 
trary, the  new  Western  race  in  its  fusing  of  many  old  ones  has 
certainly  produced  not  one  but  several  peculiarly  American 
types,  and  Driscoll's  was  American.  It  was  most  so  because 
it  had  humor,  virility,  and  the  optimism  that  drives  back  de- 
spair and  holds  forth  hope  for  all  races  of  men. 

Murguia  was  right,  his  passenger  se'emed  a  boy.  But  war 
and  four  years  of  hardest  riding  had  meant  more  of  age  than 
lagging  peace  could  ever  hold.  Sometimes  there  flitted  across 
the  lad's  face  a  vague  melancholy,  but  being  all  things  rather 
than  self-inspecting,  he  could  never  quite  locate  the  trouble, 
and  would  shake  himself  out  of  it  with  a  sort  of  comical  wonder. 
Bitterness  had  even  touched  him  the  night  before,  as  it  did 
many  another  Southerner  on  the  eve  of  the  Surrender.  Yet 
the  boy  part  in  him  made  such  moods  rare,  and  only  passing 
at  their  worst.  On  the  other  hand  the  same  boy-part  gave 
a  vigor  and  a  lustre  to  his  occupation,  though  that  occu- 
pation was— fighting.  He  knew  no  other,  and  in  that 
the  young  animal  worked  off  excess  of  animal  life  with  a 
refreshing  gusto.  Even  his  comrades,  of  desperado  stripe  that 


"  JOHN  DINWIDDIE   DRISCOLL— THE   MISSOURIAN " 

"  His  cheeks  were  smooth,  but  they  were  tight  and  hard  and  brown  from  the 

weathering  of  sun  and  blizzard  " 


The  Storm  Centre  39 

they  were,  had  dubbed  him  the  Storm  Centre.  And  so  he  was, 
in  every  tempest  of  arms.  The  very  joy  of  living — in  killing, 
alas! — always  flung  him  true  to  the  centre.  But  once  there,  he 
was  like  a  calm  and  busy  workman,  and  had  as  little  self 
consciousness  of  the  thing — of  the  gallantry  and  the  heroism — 
as  the  prosiest  blacksmith.  He  had  grown  into  a  man  of 
dangerous  fibre,  but  he  was  less  aware  of  it  than  of  his  muscles. 

Various  items  on  the  Luz  struck  the  trooper  as  amusing. 
There  was  the  incongruity  of  his  seven-hundred-dollar  cabin, 
the  secession  of  his  stomach  from  the  tranquillity  of  the  federal 
body  organic,  and  finally,  this  running  away  from  somebody. 
But  he  quickly  perceived  that  the  last  was  serious  enough. 
The  skipper  lowered  his  glasses,  and  shook  his  perky  head  a 
number  of  times.  "Who  said  life  was  all  beer  and  skittles?" 
he  demanded  defiantly,  and  glared  at  Driscoll  as  though  he 
had.  But  getting  no  answer,  he  seemed  mollified,  as  though 
this  proved  that  the  man  who  had  said  it  was  an  imbecile. 
Murguia,  by  the  way,  had  come  to  hate  no  truth  more  soul- 
fully  than  the  palpable  shortcoming  of  life  in  the  matter  of  beer 
and  skittles.  And  now  it  was  borne  in  upon  him  again,  for 
the  skipper  announced,  definitely  and  with  an  oath,  that  they'd 
have  to  begin  throwing  the  cargo  overboard. 

Poor  Don  Anastasio  behaved  like  a  man  insane.  He  wrung 
his  hands.  He  protested  stoutly,  then  incoherently.  He 
whined.  He  glared  vengefully  at  the  dread  sail  on  the  horizon, 
and  then  he  shrank  from  it,  as  from  a  flaming  sword.  And  as 
it  grew  larger,  his  eyeballs  rounded  and  dried  into  smaller 
discs.  But  at  once  he  would  remember  his  darling  cotton  that 
must  go  to  the  waves,  and  the  beady  eyes  swam  again  in 
moisture,  like  greenish  peas  in  a  sickly  broth.  Avarice  and 
terror  in  discord  played  on  the  creature  as  the  gale  through 
the  whimpering  cordage. 

"No  'elp  for  it,  sir,"  said  the  skipper,  bridling  like  a  bantam. 
"Didn't  I  try  to  save  my  cargo,  off  Savannah,  and  didn't  I 


40  The  Missourian 

lose  my  sloop  to  boot?  Didn't  I  now,  sir?— Poor  old  girl, 
mebby  she's  our  chaser  out  'ere  this  very  minute." 

"Try — try  more  turpentine,"  said  Murguia  weakly. 

"  Yes,  or  salt  bacon,  sir,  or  cognac,  or  the  woodwork,  or  any 
blarsted  thing  I  see  fit,  sir!"  The  little  skipper  hit  out  each 
item  with  a  step  downward  to  the  deck,  and  five  minutes  later 
Murguia  groaned,  for  bale  after  bale  came  tumbling  out  of  the 
hold.  Then  over  they  began  to  go,  the  first,  the  second,  the 
third,  and  another,  and  another,  and  after  each  went  a  moan 
from  Anastasio.  He  leaned  through  the  window  to  see  one 
tossing  in  the  waves,  then  suffered  a  next  pang  to  see  the  next 
follow  after.  It  was  an  excruciating  cumulus  of  grief.  The 
trooper  regarded  him  quizzically.  Destruction  of  merely 
worldly  goods  had  become  routine  for  him.  He  returned  to 
his  contemplation  of  the  two  funnels. 

The  skipper  came  back,  dripping  with  pray.  "The  wind's 
changin',"  he  said,  "and  that'll  beat  down  the  sea  some." 

"Reckon  they'll  get  us?"  Driscoll  asked. 

Murguia  took  the  query  as  an  aggravation  of  woe,  and  he 
turned  wrathfully  on  the  trooper.  "Don't  you  see  we're 
busy  ?  " 

"I  see  you're  very  damn  sullen,  gra-cious  me! — Reckon 
they  will,  captain?" 

"We'll  be  eatin'  a  United  States  of  America  supper,  chained, 
sir." 

"Now  look  here,"  said  Driscoll  plaintively,  "7  don't  want 
to  get  caught." 

"But  I  hope  as  you'll  bide  with  us,  sir?" 

"Still,  I  was  just  thinking— now  that  smoke " 

"And  I'm  a  thinkin'  you  don't  see  much  smoke.  We're 
keepin'  out  o'  sight  as  long  as  God'll  let  us." 

^"But,  Captain,  why  not  smoke  up— big?  Just  wait  now— 
this  ain't  any  of  my  regiment,  I  know  that— but  listen  a  minute 
anyway.  Well,  once  or  twice  when  we  were  in  a  fix,  in  camp, 


The  Storm  Centre  41 

say,  and  we  knew  more  visitors  were  coming  than  was  con- 
venient, w'y,  we'd  just  light  the  campfires  so  they  would 
smoke,  and  then — meantime — we'd  light  out  too.  Old  Indian 
trick,  you  know." 

The  skipper  was  first  impatient.  But  as  that  did  no  good, 
he  cocked  himself  for  a  laugh.  Then  his  mouth  puckered  to 
a  brisk  attention,  and  at  the  last  word  he  jumped  to  his  feet. 
"Damme!"  he  said,  and  went  thumping  down  the  steps  again. 
He  splashed  through  the  water  on  deck,  minding  the  stiff  wind 
not  at  all,  and  dived  into  the  engine-room. 

"Soft  coal!"  gasped  Murguia  with  relief. 

It  was  pouring  from  the  stacks  in  dense  black  clouds. 

The  captain  returned.  "We'll  try  to  save  the  rest  o'  that 
'ere  cotton,  sir,"  he  said. 

He  looked  out  at  the  trembling  smoke  that  betrayed  their 
course  so  rashly,  and  from  there  back  to  the  pursuer  on  the 
horizon.  He  waited  a  little  longer,  carefully  calculating; 
then  sent  an  order  down  the  tube  to  the  engineer.  The  dam- 
pers were  shut  off,  and  the  fuel  was  changed  to  anthracite. 
Soon  the  smoke  went  down,  and  a  hazy  invisible  stream  puffed 
from  the  funnels  instead.  The  Luz  swung  at  right  angles  to 
her  former  course.  The  paddles  threshed  hopefully,  and  on 
she  sped,  leaving  no  track.  The  skipper  gazed  back  at  the 
lowering  line,  which  ended  abruptly  on  their  port  and  trailed 
off  toward  the  horizon  with  a  telegraphy  of  deceit  for  the 
distant  sail. 

"You  soldiers,  colonel,"  he  announced,  "don't  'ave  no 
monopoly  on  tricks  and  gammon,  I'm  a  thinkin'.  But  I  s'y, 
w'at  if  you  and  me  go  down  to  my  cabin  and  have  a  noggin?" 

Thus  La  Luz  ran  her  last  blockade,  and  came  safely  into 
port.  She  reached  Tampico  some  two  days  before  the  Im- 
peratrice  Eugenie.  Whereupon  Din  Driscoll,  as  he  was  called 
anywhere  off  the  muster  roll,  informed  Don  Anastasio  that  he 


42  The  Missourian 

would  continue  with  him  on  into  the  interior.  And  as  seen 
already,  Murguia  humbly  excused  delay,  though  his  guest 
was  not  invited,  not  wanted,  and  cordially  hated  besides. 
That  meek  smirk  of  Don  Anastasio's  was  the  absurdest  thing 
in  all  psychology. 

Yet  what  perhaps  aggravated  the  old  man  most  was  curiosity. 
He  craved  to  know  the  errand  of  his  young  despot.  In  the 
doorway  of  the  Tampico  meson  he  still  hovered  near,  and 
ventured  more  questions. 

"How  was  it  that,  that  you  happened  to  be  sent,  senor?" 
he  asked. 

"Well  now,"  observed  the  trooper,  "there  you  go  figuring  it 
out  that  I  was  sent  at  all." 

"It  must  have  been — uh,  because  you  know  Spanish.  Are 
you  a — a  Texan,  Senor  Coronel?" 

"They  raised  me  in  Missouri,"  said  the  colonel.  "But  I 
learned  to  talk  Pan-American  some  on  the  Santa  Fe"  trail. 
We  had  wagon  trains  out  of  Kansas  City  when  I  was  a  good 
sight  younger." 

"I  thought,"  said  the  old  man  suspiciously,  "that  perhaps 
you  learned  it  with  Slaughter's  army,  along  the  Rio  Grande. 
Slaughter,  he's  near  Brownsville  yet,  isn't  he?" 

"Is  he?" 

"With  about  twenty-five  thousand  men?" 

"Lord,  I've  clean  forgot,  not  having  counted  'em  lately." 

"  Where  did  you  come  from  then,  when  you  came  to  Mobile  ?  " 

"W'y,  as  I  remember,  from  Sand  Spring,  Missouri,  near  the 
Arkansas  line." 

A  more  obscure  crossroads  may  not  exist  anywhere,  but  its 
bare  mention  had  a  curious  effect  on  the  prying  Don 
Anastasio.  In  the  instant  he  seemed  to  cringe  before  his  late 
passenger. 

"Then  you— Your  Mercy,"  he  exclaimed,  "belongs  to  Shel- 
uy's  Brigade?" 


The  Storm  Centre  43 

The  Missourian  nodded  curtly.  His  questioner  was  extra- 
ordinarily well  informed. 

"And,  and  how  many  men  has  Shelby  at  Sand  Spring?" 

"Oh,  millions.  At  least  millions  don't  appear  to  stop 
'em  any." 

"But  senor,  how,  how  many  Confederates  are  there  alto- 
gether west  of  the  Mississippi?" 

Driscoll,  though,  had  had  enough.  "Look  here  Murgie," 
he  said,  "if  you  keep  on  crawling,  you'll  crawl  up  on  a  mongoose 
one  of  these  days,  and  those  things  have  teeth." 

He  might  have  gone  further  into  natural  history,  but  a 
sudden  commotion  down  the  street  interrupted.  "It's  a  race!" 
he  cried.  "No — Lordsake,  if  they  ain't  fighting!" 

He  drew  off  his  coat,  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and 
shoved  it  into  his  hip  pocket,  all  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
has  smoked  enough  and  must  be  getting  to  work.  His  brown 
eyes  quickened.  It  was  akin  to  the  satisfaction  a  merchant 
feels  who  scents  an  unexpected  order.  He  was  ready  to 
deliver  the  goods  instantly.  His  heavy  boots  went  clattering 
and  his  great  spurs  jangling,  and  soon  he  was  stooping  over 
two  men  rolling  in  the  dust.  But  he  straightened  and  thrust 
his  hands  into  his  pockets.  He  was  disappointed.  The 
unexpected  order  was  a  hoax.  The  combatants  were  one  to 
one,  and  he  could  not  fairly  enter  into  competition.  Then 
an  unaccustomed  method  for  getting  into  the  bidding  occurred 
to  him.  He  might  be  peacemaker.  He  leaned  over  again,  to 
•separate  them.  Each  long-fingered  hand  reached  for  a  collar. 
Yet  even  as  he  caught  hold  one  of  his  prizes  went  limp  in  his 
grasp.  He  pulled  out  the  survivor,  who  proved  to  be  a  ragged 
Mexican  with  a  knife.  The  other  was  a  French  sailor.  Dris- 
coll shook  the  native  angrily,  whereupon  the  little  demon 
swung  the  knife  with  vicious  intent.  But  Driscoll  held  him  at 
arm's  length,  and  the  sweeps  fell  short,  to  the  amazement  and 
rage  of  his  captive. 


44  The  Missourian 

"You  miserable  little  chocolate-hided  galoot,  why  couldn't 
you  wait  for  me?" 

But  the  chocolate-hided  only  squirmed  to  get  away.  Dris- 
coll  glanced  up  the  street  whence  the  two  had  come.  At  the 
next  corner,  before  a  cafe",  he  saw  things  more  promising.  A 
ranchero  with  a  drawn  revolver  was  holding  off  a  young  officer 
in  sky-blue  uniform,  while  around  them  a  swarm  of  natives 
and  ten  or  eleven  sailors  were  circling  uneasily,  as  if  waiting 
for  some  sign  to  begin  hostilities.  The  joy  of  battle  dilated 
the  trooper's  nostrils. 

"W'y,  here  I've  been  wasting  time  on  a  smaller  edition." 

So  saying,  he  flung  aside  his  prisoner;  and  in  another  minute 
he  was  the  centre  of  the  main  affair,  and  having  an  excellent 
time. 


CHAPTER  VI 
A  BRUISING  OF  ARMS  FOR  JACQUELINE 

"  Then  John  bent  up  his  long  bende-bowc, 
And  fetteled  him  to  shoote." 

— Robin  Hood. 

INTO  the  crowd  before  the  cafe,  the  Storm  Centre  pushed 
the  argument  of  shoulders,  and  quickly  gained  for  himself  the 
place  which  his  pseudonym  indicated.  Then  he  stopped,  and 
looked  puzzled.  Which  side  to  take?  The  French,  being 
outnumbered,  offered  the  larger  contract. 

"What's  the  row?"  Driscoll  inquired  of  Ney.  But  he  was 
ignored.  "Might  answer,"  he  suggested  insidiously,  "for 
it's  only  a  toss-up  anyhow  which  way  I  enlist.  Look  here, 
Sky-Blue,  if  you  don't  understand  Spanish,  just  say  so,  and 
tell  me  why  you  don't  start  the  game." 

Ney  shoved  him  aside  impatiently,  but  he  calmly  stepped 
back  again. 

"Come  now,"  he  argued  plaintively,  "let  me  in,  don't. be 
selfish?  But — goodness  gracious,  man,  why  don't  you  draw 
your  gun?" 

"Because,  my  good  fellow,  I  haven't  any." 

The  mystery  cleared  at  once,  for  now  Driscoll  understood 
the  strategic  outlay.  Its  key  was  Fra  Diavolo,  with  a  pistol 
at  Ney's  head,  and  quite  statuesque  the  romantic  Mexican 
looked.  But  out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye  Fra  Diavolo  noted  the 
American,  at  first  with  contemptuous  amusement  only.  Then, 
as  though  such  had  been  the  situation  from  the  start,  he  grew 
aware  of  an  ugly  black  muzzle  under  his  chin.  For  very  safety 

45 


46  The  Missourian 

he  froze  rigid,  and  dared  not  turn  his  own  weapon  from  Ney 
to  his  new  aggressor.  But  he  wondered  how  the  ugly  black 
muzzle  came  there.  He  had  not  seen  the  American  move. 
But  for  those  who  did  see,  the  action  seemed  deliberate,  with 
no  hint  of  the  actual  panther-like  turn  of  the  wrist  from  the 
waist  outward. 

With  his  left  hand  Driscoll  next  drew  forth  the  second  of 
the  brace,  and  held  it  out  to  Ney  in  his  palm.  The  Chasseur 
seized  the  weapon  joyfully.  He  straightened  as  the  humiliation 
of  a  disarmed  soldier  fell  from  him.  But  at  once  his  face 
clouded,  and  with  an  oath  he  handed  back  the  navy-six. 

"W'y,  what's  the  matter?"  asked  Driscoll. 

"You  are  trifling,  man.    That  thing  has  no  trigger." 

Much  as  an  artisan  would  explain  the  peculiarities  of  a 
favorite  tool,  Driscoll  said,  "Now  look  here,  you  strip  it— this 
way — so." 

And  as  he  explained,  he  illustrated.  He  raised  the  hammer 
under  his  thumb,  he  released  it  on  the  cartridge,  and  Fra 
Diavolo's  sombrero  flew  off. 

Fra  Diavolo  threw  up  his  hand  involuntarily,  and  there  was 
a  second  report.  Fra  Diavolo's  pistol  twisted  out  of  his  grasp. 
The  brace  of  navies  had  not  gone  higher  than  the  American's 
waist. 

"So,"  Driscoll  concluded. 

At  the  same  moment  one  of  the  sailors,  a  bullet-headed  lad  of 
Normandy,  was  observed  to  do  a  very  peculiar  thing.  Jumping 
in  front  of  Fra  Diavolo  he  drew  up  one  knee,  for  all  the  world 
like  a  dancer  who  meant  then  and  there  to  cut  a  pigeon's 
wing.  His  foot  described  a  circle  under  the  knee,  then  the 
performer  turned  partly  round,  and  as  a  lightning  bolt  his  leg 
straightened  out  full  against  Fra  Diavolo's  stomach.  The 
ranch  ero  dropped  like  a  bag  of  sand,  except  that  he  groaned. 
Ney  captured  the  fallen  pistol.  A  musket  blazed,  and  a  sailor 
cursed.  And  forthwith  the  maelstrom  began.  It  went  swirling 


A  Bruising  of  Arms  for  Jacqueline  47 

round,  with  weird  contortions  and  murderous  eddies,  but 
always  its  seething  vortex  was  the  lone  trooper. 

Luckily,  firearms  were  out  of  the  question  where  both  sides 
were  so  mixed  together.  But  Mexicans  and  sailors  plied  their 
knives  instead,  so  that  there  was  much  soppy  red  spreading 
over  the  yellowish  white  of  shirts,  and  over  the  blue  of  jackets. 
The  pigeon- wing  diversion,  called  the  savate,  also  played  its 
bizarre  r61e,  for  wherever  a  Frenchman  found  space  for  the 
straightening  out  of  a  leg,  in  that  instant  a  little  native  shot 
from  him  as  a  cat  from  the  toe  of  a  boot.  Fra  Diavolo  was 
deposited  flat  on  his  back  each  time  he  tried  to  rise,  till  the 
sole  of  a  foot  took  on  more  terror  than  a  cannon's  mouth.  As 
for  Michel  Ney,  he  was  beautiful  and  gallant,  now  that  what 
he  had  to  do  came  without  thinking.  He  achieved  things 
splendidly  with  the  butt  of  his  enemy's  revolver,  and  exhorted 
his  men  the  while  to  the  old,  brilliant  daring  of  Frenchmen. 

The  Storm  Centre,  though,  was  merely  workmanlike. 
He  put  away  the  six-shooters,  and  strove  barehanded  with 
joy  and  vigor,  which  was  delightful;  yet  so  systematic,  that  it 
was  anything  rather  than  romance.  It  might  have  been  geo- 
metry, in  that  a  foe  is  safer  horizontal  than  perpendicular,  and 
the  theorem  he  applied  industriously,  with  simple  faith  and 
earnest  fists. 

Yet,  all  told,  it  was  a  highly  successful  affair.  Din  Driscoll 
objected  to  the  brevity,  but  that  could  hardly  be  altered  for 
his  sake.  The  little  demons  of  Mexicans  crawled  from  the 
outskirts  of  the  mess,  here  one,  there  two  or  three,  and  now 
many,  limping  and  nursing  heads,  and  rubbing  themselves 
dubiously,  with  hideous  grimaces. 

Suddenly  the  cafe  door  opened,  and  Jacqueline  emerged, 
tripping  lightly.  Din  Driscoll  was  filling  his  cob  pipe,  but 
he  paused  with  a  finger  over  the  bowl.  "If  there  isn't  a  woman 
in  it!"  he  muttered.  He  felt  imposed  upon.  The  game  was 
a  man's  game,  and  now  its  flavor  was  gone. 


48  The  Missourian 

Jacqueline  had  seen  nothing  of  the  fray,  but  now  she  saw 
Fra  Diavolo's  Contra  Guerrillas  skulking  away  and  the 
sardonic  captain  himself  fuming  in  ignoble  soreness  on  his 
back.  "Indeed,"  with  fine  scorn  she  demanded  of  Ney,  "and 
how  did  you  manage  it?" 

"Looks  like  the  wrong  side  won  out,"  mused  Driscoll, 
feeling  a  little  uncomfortable. 

"Permit  me  to  congratulate  you — sergeant,"  she  went  on. 
"It's  a  good  beginning  for  promotion.  If  you  only  knew 
how  hard  Maximilian  tries  to  win  over  these  natives,  and  here 
the  very  first  thing  you — Helas!  poor  Prince  Max!" 

Driscoll  caught  one  word  from  her  French.  "What's  that 
about  Maximilian  ? "  he  interrupted.  He  had  to  repeat,  and 
then  Jacqueline  only  glanced  at  him  over  her  shoulder.  Some 
mule  driver,  she  imagined,  and  turned  again  to  the  abashed 
Chasseur. 

But  the  pseudo  mule  driver  moved  squarely  in  front  of  her. 
He  was  embarrassed  and  respectful,  but  determined.  Jacque- 
line lifted  her  brows.  "My  good  man,  this  is  effrontery!" 
But  her  good  man  did  not  quail.  She  noticed  him  a  little  then. 
He  was  ruddy  and  clean,  with  a  stubble  growth  on  his  jaw. 
Since  the  civilization  of  Mobile,  Lieutenant  Colonel  Jno.  D. 
Driscoll  had  backslided  into  his  old  campaign  ease.  His 
first  genuine  stiff  beard  had  found  him  sabre  in  hand,  so  that 
his  knowledge  of  cutting  instruments  and  of  arched  brows 
was  limited.  He  said  that  he  would  be  much  obliged 
to  have  his  question  answered.  Whereat  Jacqueline 
thought,  by  her  faith,  "What  a  round,  wholesome  voice  these 
rustics  sometimes  have!"  The  one  she  heard  possessed 
the  full  rich  quality  of  an  Irishman's  brogue,  with  the 
brogue  worn  off. 

"You  know  Spanish,  do  you  not,  senorita?" 

"Mais— why,  better  than  I  thought,"  she  returned  in 
English;  and  in  English  that  was  piquant  because  it  could  not 


A  Bruising  of  Arms  for  Jacqueline  49 

help  being  just  the  least  bit  French  as  well.  "Much  better — 
because,  I  comprehend  even  yours,  sir." 

"  Con-granulate  you,"  Driscoll  returned.  "But  what's 
this  about  Maximilian?" 

An  eagerness  in  his  manner  caught  her  attention.  But 
she  answered  with  her  old  irony.  "His  Imperial  Majesty 
seems  to  concern  you  profoundly,  monsieur?" 

"H'm'm— oh  no!  Only  it's  curious  how  he  gets  mixed  up 
in  this  shindy  of  ours." 

"If — if  you  are  asking  about  Maximilian,  senor,"  a  heavy 
voice  began.  Fra  Diavolo  at  least  was  not  indifferent  to  the 
American's  questioning,  and  now  he  explained  that  the  lady 
was  the  Marquesa  d'Aumerle,  and  that  she  was  on  her  way 
from  Paris  to  the  Mexican  court.  But  a  storm  having  brought 
her  to  Tampico,  she  wished  to  finish  her  journey  overland. 
He,  the  Capitan  Morel  of  His  Majesty's  Contra  Guerrillas, 
had  offered  her  escort  for  the  trip.  But  the  French  caballero 
had  presumed  to  force  her  to  continue  by  water. 

"By  water?"  Driscoll  repeated,  glaring  at  Ney.  "That 
poor  litle  girl! — And  make  her  sick  again!" 

Jacqueline's  chin  tilted.     "Ma  foi,  monsieur,  I  was  not  sick." 

Driscoll  noted  her  fragile  dainty  person,  and  recalling  his 
own  experience,  had  grave  doubts  about  the  consistency  of 
Nature.  But  this  was  apart.  There  was  still  the  mystery 
of  his  having  blundered  into  a  business  that  somehow  con- 
cerned the  Emperor  of  Mexico.  And  it  was  a  matter  that  must 
be  set  right. 

"You  say  you  are  an  officer,"  he  demanded  of  the  ranchero, 
"but  your  Greaser  clothes,  that's  not  a  uniform?" 

Uniforms  were  not  necessarily  a  part  of  the  contra-guerrilla 
service,  said  the  Mexican;  and  besides,  there  might  be  reasons 
for  a  disguise.  But  as  to  his  own  identity,  he  reproduced  the 
order  signed  by  Colonel  Dupin. 

"Correct,"  said  Driscoll,  and  handed  back  the  paper. 


50  The  Missourian 

"Now  then,"  he  added  to  Ney,  "what  do  you  say  for  your- 
self?" 

Unconsciously  the  French  soldier  replied  as  to  a  superior 
officer.  "I've  just  been  transferred  to  the  service  of  His 
Excellency,  Marshal  Bazaine,  in  the  City  of  Mexico,  and  am 
on  my  way  there  now." 

"You  are  in  the  French  service?" 

"Of  course  I  am." 

"Your  rank?" 

"Sergeant." 

Here,  in  a  caprice  of  kind  heart,  as  well  as  of  mischief, 
Jacqueline  interposed.  "Your  sergeant,  Monsieur  the  Amer- 
ican, is  the  Duke  of  Elchingen."  But  she  might  have  called 
Ney  a  genus  homo,  for  all  the  impression  it  made. 

"Too  bad,  sergeant,"  said  Driscoll,  "but  a  captain  ranks 
first,  you  know,  and — well,  I  reckon  I'll  have  to  change  sides. 
I  know  it's  tough,"  and  his  brow  knitted  with  droll  perplexity, 
"but  I'm  afraid  we'll  just  have  to  do  this  thing  all  over  again, 
unless — well,  unless  you  give  in,  sergeant." 

Jacqueline  had  been  waxing  more  and  more  agog,  and  her 
boot  had  tapped  impatiently.  Now  she  gave  way,  and  de- 
clared that  it  was  too  much.  What,  she  demanded,  had  mon- 
sieur to  do  with  the  matter  in  the  first  place?  Driscoll  took 
off  his  slouch  hat  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair  to  grope 
for  an  answer.  It  had  never  been  brought  to  him  before  that 
fighting  might  be  a  private  preserve.  But  his  face  cleared 
straightway.  In  this  second  skirmish,  due  momentarily,  he 
would  be  a  legitimate  belligerent  and  not  a  trespasser,  because 
since  he  had  stumbled  amuck  of  Maximilian's  authority, 
another  joust  was  needed  to  correct  the  first.  It  all  depended 
on  whether  Miss — Miss — if  the  senorita — still  wished  to  go  by 
land. 

"If  monsieur  will  have  the  condescension,"  returned  Jacque- 
line. 


A  Bruising  of  Arms  for  Jacqueline  51 

Then  out  came  the  brace  of  navies  once  more,  as  naturally 
as  the  order  book  of  the  grocer's  clerk  on  your  back  porch. 
Involuntarily  Ney  reached  for  his  cap. 

"Now  captain,"  said  Driscoll. 

Fra  Diavolo  took  the  cue  instantly.  "  A-i,  mis  muchachos!" 
he  called,  and  the  little  demons  came  hurrying  back,  like  a 
damned  host  with  a  new  hope  of  heaven. 

If  there  were  any  police  about,  or  had  been,  they  were  mys- 
teriously indifferent.  But  Jacqueline  did  just  as  well.  No 
one  had  thought  to  put  her  back  in  the  cafe",  and  she  promptly 
took  a  hand  in  the  man's  game. 

"Michel  Ney,"  she  commanded,  "do  you  hear  me;  lower 
that  pistol!" 

"You,  you  wish  me  to  surrender,  mademoiselle?" 

"You  know  I  don't!  If  anyone  even  asks  it,  I  will  go  back 
to  the  ship  with  you,  at  once." 

"But  I,  I  don't  understand." 

"You  understand  that  I  want  your  escort  overland.  Is  it 
gallant,  then,  to  disappoint  me  by  getting  yourself  killed?" 

"But  all  your  trunks  are  on  the  ship." 

Jacqueline  turned  to  her  Fra  Diavolo.  He  could  answer 
that?  To  be  sure  he  could,  and  he  was  honored.  He  sug- 
gested, with  her  permission,  that  she  spend  the  night  on  shore, 
she  and  her  maid,  since  the  cafe  was  also  a  hotel.  Meantime, 
the  sailors  could  bring  what  she  needed  from  the  boat. 

As  he  listened,  Ney's  slow  thoughts  came  to  a  focus.  And 
when  Jacqueline  turned  to  him  again,  he  gave  way  graciously, 
which  brought  on  him  a  sharp  scrutiny  from  the  ranchero. 
However,  the  truce  between  the  two  antagonists  was  patched 
up  with  a  readiness  on  both  sides.  Ney  restored  to  Fra  Diavolo 
his  pistol,  and  had  his  own  weapons  back  in  exchange.  Next 
he  took  the  ship's  steward  aside,  apparently  to  instruct  him 
about  bringing  the  trunk.  "And  steward,"  he  whispered, 
"don't  forget  to  make  it  urgent.  The  skipper  must  land  all 


52  The  Missourian 

the  troops  on  board  at  once."  He  decided  that  meantime  he 
would  stroll  up  to  the  fort  on  his  own  account,  and  bring  down 
more  aid  from  there. 

"Now  then,"  reflected  the  beaming  young  Gaul,  "our 
spirituelle  little  marquise  will  find  that  one  may  have  wits,  and 
not  read  her  dense  old  poets,  either." 

He  opened  the  cafe  door  for  her  and  both  joined  the  maid 
Berthe,  who  was  still  clinging  to  sanctuary  inside. 

The  American  lieutenant-colonel  and  the  Mexican  capitan 
looked  at  one  another.  They  felt  deserted.  Fra  Diavolo's 
teeth  bared.  "  Ai,  que  mal  educados,"  he  observed.  "They're 
ill-bred,  I  say.  They  kick  a  gentleman  in  the  stomach — in 
the  stomach,  senor!" 

Driscoll  turned  to  go.  It  was  enough  of  satisfaction  to 
reflect  that,  if  any  mention  of  the  affair  reached  Maximilian, 
his  own  part  therein  would  not  injure  his  errand  to  Mexico. 
As  for  the  rest,  Mexicans  and  French  could  go  their  own  ways — 
he  had  amused  himself.  "Well,  adios,  captain,"  he  said, 
and  swung  on  his  heel. 

"Wait!    Which  direction,   senor?" 

"To  this  meson  here,  around  the  corner." 

"If  Your  Mercy  is  not  in  a  hurry " 

Driscoll  nodded,  and  the  capitan  stopped  to  say  a  few  words 
to  two  of  his  vagabonds.  One  of  these  immediately  hurried 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  river.  The  other  was  still  loafing 
outside  the  cafe*  when  his  chief  rejoined  Driscoll. 

"Looks  like  you  were  interested  in  His  Resplendent 
Majesty,"  Fra  Diavolo  began  with  weighty  lightsomeness. 
"Musn't  hurt  his  feelings,  eh,  caballero?" 

Driscoll  laughed  easily,  "It  was  all  on  the  girl's  account," 
he  said. 

The  ranchero  glanced  at  him  quickly,  sideways,  a  dark 
look  of  suspicion.  "  On  her  account,  senor,  not  Maximilian's  ?  " 
he  repeated.  "Dios  mio,  caballero,  I'll  wager  you  have  for- 


A  Bruising  of  Arms  for  Jacqueline  53 

gotten  her  already."     Which,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  fairly 
exact. 

At  the  meson  Don  Anastasio  regarded  the  American  with 
much  more  respect  to  see  him  returning  in  such  company. 
But  to  Fra  Diavolo  he  addressed  himself  in  his  thin  obsequious 
voice,  "You  see  I  am  waiting,  as  you  wished.  But  on  my, 
my  daughter's  account,  I — 

"So,  captain,"  Driscoll  interrupted,  "you're  the  one  that's 
holding  back  Murgie!  Just  tell  him,  Murgie,  that  I  am  in  a 
rush." 

Fra  Diavolo  smiled  and  bade  his  American  have  patience, 
for  he  quite  believed  that  the  Senor  Murguia  would  be  starting 
in  the  morning. 

"Si  senor,"  he  went  on  in  a  different  tone,  when  Driscoll 
had  left  him  alone  with  the  trader,  "you  set  out  to-morrow, 
and  you  are  to  have  two  extra  horses  ready.  But  for  whom, 
do  you  suppose?  Bien,  they  are  for  La  Senorita  Jacqueline 
and  her  maid." 

Murguia's  countenance  changed  strangely,  a  most  inex- 
plicable contortion.  His  little  rat  eyes  focused  on  the  ranchero, 
and  he  drew  back  in  a  sort  of  fear.  Convoy  her  whom  people 
called  Jacqueline  through  the  lawless  Huasteca,  at  the 
bidding  of  this  man!  "No,  no,  no!"  he  cried,  and  shuddered 
too. 

Trying  to  read  a  meaning  behind  the  capitan's  dark  scowl, 
he  knew  only  too  well  the  meaning  that  was  there.  He  moaned 
at  the  thought.  Maximiliano  would  have  him  shot,  or  burned, 
or  tortured.  He  would  lose  his  ranch,  his  cotton  mill.  He 
would  be  poor.  It  was  vague,  what  would  happen,  but  it  was 
horrible,  horrible! 

•   "Hush,   you  fool!"   growled  Fra   Diavolo.     "The  entire 
meson  will  hear  you,  including  that  Gringo." 

"That  Gringo?    He,  he  is  one  of  your  friends?" 

"Friend!     For  Dios,  he  nearly  ruined  my  little  plans  for 


54  The  Missourian 

Jacqueline.  Listen,  he  has  business  of  some  kind  with  Max- 
imiliano." 

"Yes,  yes.    And  there's  a — a  mystery  in  his  business." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"If  I  knew,  would  it  be  a  mystery?" 

"Who  is  he?" 

"He  won't  tell.  I  only  know  that  he  is  a  Confederate 
officer." 

"A  Confederate  officer?"  The  capitan  whistled  low  and 
softly.  "Come  to  the  Plaza,  there  you  can  tell  me  what  you 
think." 

And  in  the  solitude  of  the  Plaza  they  planned  according  to 
their  suspicions. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SWORDSMANSHIP  IN  THE  DARK 

"  Cry  'holla'  to  thy  tongue,  I  prithee;  it  curvets  unseasonably." 

— As  You  Like  It. 

"STRANGE  there's  no  motion,"  thought  Jacqueline  the  next 
morning,  rubbing  her  eyes.  "Why,  what  ails  the  old  boat,  I 
wonder?"  Then  she  remembered.  She  was  in  the  Tampico 
hotel  which  called  itself  a  cafe,  and  the  landlord's  wife  was 
knocking  on  her  door  and  calling  "Nin-a,  nin-a"  with  a  plain- 
tive stress  on  the  first  syllable.  The  word  means  girl,  and 
oddly  enough,  is  often  used  by  a  Mexican  servant  to  address 
her  mistress. 

"I'm  not  a  n-e-e-n-ya,"  Jacqueline  assured  her  drowsily, 
"and  if  I  were,  madame,  why  make  a  fete  out  of  it  this  way 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  ?  " 

"Nin-a,"  the  unctuous  nasal  rose  higher,  "if  Your  Mercy 
goes  with  Don  Anastasio,  she  must  hurry.  It  is  late.  It  is 
four  o'clock,  nifia." 

"Four  o'clock — late?"  gasped  the  luxurious  little  marquise. 
"And  how  much  difference,  exactly,  would  your  four  o'clocks 
make  on  the  planet  Mars,  my  good  woman?" 

"But  nina,  there  is  Don  Anastasio,  he  is  ready  to  start." 

"And  who  is  Don  Anastasio,  pray?" 

"The  trader,  nina,  at  the  meson.  He  is  to  take  Your  Mercy 
to  Valles,  as  Don — as  the  Capitan  Morel  told  Your  Mercy  yes- 
terday." 

"The  Capitan  Morel,  pardi!    Faith,  if  any  man  had  told 

55 


cj6  The  Missourian 

me  it  meant  rising  at  any  such  unholy  hour.  Oh  well,  I  suppose 
it  is  the  hour  for  larks,  too." 

And  sighing  at  the  sacrifice  of  an  age  of  slumber,  Jacqueline 
reached  out  for  the  matches.  But  there  was  no  dainty  limbed 
night  table  of  a  Louis  XV.  beside  her  bed,  which  helped  her 
again  to  remember  where  she  was,  and  if  doubts  still  remained, 
they  were  gone  when  her  bare  feet  touched  the  fibrous,  prickly 
native  carpet  instead  of  soft  furs. 

She  groped  to  the  door,  and  opened  it  enough  to  take  a 
greasily  odorous  candle  from  a  dusky  hand  outside.  As  the 
sickly  glimmer  awakened  the  shadows,  she  called  the  woman 
back  in  sudden  dismay.  "My  trunk,  senora,  kindly  have  it 
sent  up  at  once.  No,"'  she  added,  catching  a  fluffy  garment 
from  a  chair,  "in  five  minutes." 

There  was  a  brief  silence,  followed  by  positive  lament. 
"Nina,  it  is  not  here.  I  believe,  nin-a,  it  is  at  the  meson,  with 
Don  Anastasio." 

"F-flute!"  cried  Jacqueline.  The  word  means  nothing  at 
all,  but  it  may  express  a  lass's  exasperation  in  a  ward- 
robe crisis,  and  that  is  nothing  except  a  catastrophe. 
"Now  just  possibly,"  she  soliloquized,  "they  permit 
themselves  to  imagine  that  one  can  wear  a  white  frock 
two  days  together,"  whereupon  she  sat  herself  down 
despairingly  among  the  crisp  things  that  had  already  had 
their  poor  little  day.  To  mock  her  there  was  the  jaunty 
handsatchel  packed  for  an  hour's  shore  leave.  She  let 
petulance  have  sway,  and  informed  herself  that  she  should 
not  go  a  step,  when  the  voice  in  the  hall  pleaded  insidiously 
that  Her  Mercy  make  haste. 

"But  I  am,  senora,  I'm  making  fast  haste,"  and  she  sat  three 
minutes  longer,  communing  with  her  tragedy.  "Oh,  this 
bitten,  biting  country,"  she  cried,  gazing  ruefully  at  arms  and 
shoulders,  and  fiery  blotches  on  the  soft  white  skin.  "Still,  if 
there's  a  brigand  for  every  mosquito,  it  may  yet  be  worth 


Swordsmanship  in  the  Dark  57 

while."  Hopefully  she  rose  and  called  Berthe  from  the  next 
room  to  help  her  dress. 

When  the  two  girls  came  downstairs,  the  landlord's  wife 
took  their  satchel,  and  led  them  over  broken  sidewalks  to  the 
meson,  where  the  street  was  rilled  with  torches  and  laden 
burros  and  blanketed  shadows.  Murguia's  caravan  was 
forming,  making  a  weird,  stealthy  scene  of  activity.  Jacqueline 
picked  up  a  lantern,  and  searched  here  and  there. 

"Now  where  can  it  be?"  she  cried. 

The  rebosa  about  the  shoulders  of  the  Mexican  woman  rose. 
She  knew  nothing.  But  the  gesture  was  an  unabridged  philo- 
sophical system  as  to  the  resignation  and  the  indifference 
that  is  seemly  when  one  knows  nothing.  Jacqueline  refrained 
from  pinching  her,  and  pursued  the  quest  of  her  trunk  even 
into  the  meson. 

Hardly  had  she  passed  within  when  a  greatly  agitated  little 
old  man  tried  to  overtake  her.  But  at  the  door  he  thought 
better  of  it  and  vented  his  chagrin  on  the  Mexican  woman. 

"Why  did  you  let  her  go  in  there?"  he  cried.  "She  will 
wake  the  Gringo,  she  will  wake  the  Gringo!" 

Jacqueline  reappeared.  "No  trunk,"  she  announced.  " Do 
you  know,  Berthe,  I  do  not  believe  it  came  at  all?" 

The  old  man's  voice  sounded  at  her  elbow,  faltering,  placat- 
ing. "With  permission,  senorita,  we  must  be  starting." 

"And  similarly  with  permission,  senor,  who  are  you?" 

"Anastasio  Murguia,  the  servant  of  Your  Mercy." 

"Ah,  the  poor  little  crow ?  Perhaps  you  will  tell  me,  sir,  why 
neither  the  Senor  Ney  nor  Fra — nor  Captain  Morel  is  here?" 

The  young  French  caballero  had  visited  the  fort  last  even- 
ing, he  replied.  Her  Mercy  knew  that?  Yes,  precisamente. 
Yes,  the  caballero  had  spent  the  night  up  there  with  his  com- 
patriots of  the  garrison.  Her  Mercy  did  not  know  that  ?  No  ? 
But  it  was  quite  exact,  yes,  because  he,  Don  Anastasio,  had 
been  so  informed.  But  the  Senor  Ney  would  meet  them  out 


cjg  The  Missourian 

of  Tampico — yes,  precisamente,  with  a  detachment  of  cavalry 
from  the  fort." 

"That  poor  Michel!"  said  Jacqueline.  "He's  determined 
that  I  am  to  have  a  French  escort.  But  Captain  Morel, 
senor?" 

Murguia  would  not  answer.  He  repeated  the  question  to 
the  Mexican  woman,  who  took  up  explanations  with  a  glib 
readiness.  "Si,  nina,  I  saw  the  capitan,  not  more  than  an  hour 
ago.  He  was  riding  by  the  cafe,  to  meet  his — Contra  Guer- 
rillas. But  he  stopped  and  woke  me.  He  said  that  I  was  to 
bring  Your  Mercies  here  to  the  meson,  and  to  say  that  he  would 
meet  Your  Mercies — yes,  surely,  before  you  had  gone  very  far, 
nina."  Her  tone  was  a  sugared  whine,  and  more  than  once 
she  peered  around  at  Murguia;  while  he,  for  his  part,  stood 
by  as  though  overseeing  a  task.  But  Jacqueline  only  allowed 
herself  a  little  inconsequential  sniff,  and  went  back  to  the  really 
serious  business  that  did  worry  her.  She  demanded  her  trunk. 

"How,  the  senorita  does  not  know?"  asked  Murguia. 

"Know  what?" 

"That  the  sailors  did  not  come  back  from  the  ship?" 

"Not  come  back!    Eh  bien,  I  will  not  go  a  step." 

At  first  Don  Anastasio's  pinched  face  lighted  with  relief. 
But  at  once  a  conflicting  anxiety,  lest  she  might  not  go,  seemed 
to  possess  him.  "But  senorita,  he  protested,  "what  will  Your 
Mercy  do  ?  The  ship,  yes,  senorita,  the  ship  has  sailed  already. 
It  left  last  night  for  Vera  Cruz." 

"And  here  am  I,"  Jacqueline  exclaimed,  tapping  her  foot, 
"with  only  one  dress!" 

A  long  bubbling  whistle  sounded  near  a  gendarme's  lantern 
in  the  middle  of  the  street.  A  block  away  another  sounded, 
then  another,  and  another,  and  others  yet,  each  thinly  shrill 
and  distant.  It  was  the  challenge  to  slumber  and  the  answer 
of  wakefulness  from  the  watches  of  the  night  over  the  silent 
city. 


Swordsmanship  in  the  Dark  59 

"Another  quarter  gone  by!"  Murguia  exclaimed  nervously. 
"Come, sefioritas,if  we  are  to  reach  theValles  stage  by  nightfall, 
we  have  no  time  to  lose.  There  are  your  horses,  I  will " 

A  tremor  cut  short  his  words.  Someone  had  just  emerged 
from  the  meson. 

"Gracious,  Murgie,  off  so  early?"  the  newcomer  observed 
cheerily. 

Murguia  scowled.    He  knew  that  tone. 

"If  I'm  late,  I  apologize,"  the  other  drawled  gently,  from 
behind  the  flare  of  a  match  over  his  pipe.  "Howsoever,  all 
my  eyes  weren't  shut,  and  you  wouldn't  of  left  me.  Pretty 
quiet  about  striking  camp,  though!  Didn't  want  to  disturb 
me,  maybe?  Well,  well,  who  made  you  so  thoughtful?  Not 
Captain  Morel  ?  Now  I  wonder! " 

"I  uh,  why  should  I  wake  you,  Mis-ter  Driscoll?  Have  I 
asked  you  even  to  go?" 

"N-o,  but  you  evidently  asked  old  Demijohn  there."  And 
Driscoll  pointed  to  his  horse,  all  saddled.  "But  cheer  up, 
Convoluting  Squirmer,  of  course  I  know  you  aren't  a  horse 
thief.  No,  I  just  come  out  to  say  you  forgot  the  blanket.  I 
was  sleeping  on  it." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  two  girls.  They  were  going  also. 
But  why  try  to  leave  him  behind,  even  without  a  horse  ?  He 
knew,  for  all  his  whimsical  cheerfulness,  that  something  serious 
was  afoot.  It  was  hardly  likely  that  the  girls  themselves  had 
interfered.  Still,  he  must  make  sure.  To  provoke  a  reply 
elsewhere,  he  asked  Murguia  if  it  were  the  senoritas,  perhaps, 
and  not  Captain  Morel,  who  preferred  his  absence?  A  sur- 
prised "Ma  foi!"  from  Jacqueline  answered  him.  As  he  sup- 
posed, she  had  not  thought  of  him  one  way  or  another.  .. 

But  she  deigned  to  say,  that  since  the  American  gentle- 
man— there  was  a  lingering  on  the  word,  which  opened  wide 
the  Storm  Centre's  eyes  with  anticipation  of  battle — that  since 
the  American  gentleman  had  broached  the  subject  of  his  going 


fo  The  Missourian 

(as  no  doubt  interesting  him,  being  about  himself),  then  she 
would  permit  herself  to  inquire  why,  indeed,  he  should  be  going 
with  them  at  all.  She  had  not  observed  any  cordiality  in  the 
requests  for  his  society. 

The  light  was  not  good,  and  she  did  not  see  his  lips  pucker 
as  for  a  long  whistle.  But  he  did  not  whistle.  He  replied  very 
humbly;  and  so  sweetly  that  Murguia  quailed  for  the  little 
shrew. 

"W'y  miss,"  he  said,  "it  all  comes  of  feeling  my  responsi- 
bility. I'm  the  cause  of  your  going,  and  that's  why  I'm  going 
too." 

His  very  earnestness  gave  her  to  understand  that  he  had 
forgotten  her  entirely.  The  finesse  of  the  Tuileries  could  not 
have  struck  home  more  delicately,  and  more  keenly.  "I've 
often  heard,"  she  thought  to  herself,  "that  an  awkward  swords- 
man is  dangerous."  But  she  made  no  cry  of  "  touched !" 
Instead  she  caught  at  the  point  to  turn  the  blade  aside.  "Re- 
sponsibility? Truly  sir,  you  are  considerate.  But  permit 
me — my  safety  on  this  trip,  what  concern  can  that  have  for 
Your  Mercy?" 

"None  at  all,"  replied  Driscoll,  heartily. 

His  brow,  none  the  less,  was  crinkled,  and  he  watched 
dubiously  as  Murguia  helped  the  two  girls  into  great  armchair- 
like  saddles.  There  was  not  a  woman's  saddle  in  Tampico, 
but  Jeanne  d'Aumerle  did  not  mind  that.  She,  the  marchioness, 
enjoyed  the  oddity  of  a  pommel  in  lieu  of  horn.  And  the  lady's 
maid  might  have  been  on  a  dromedary,  for  all  the  conscious- 
ness the  poor  child  had  of  it. 

"Say,"  Driscoll  interrupted  with  cool  obstinacy,  "where's 
our  friend  the  captain  and  that  sky-blue  Frenchman  ?  " 

Murguia  pretended  not  to  heed  him.  Jacqueline  really  did 
riot.  But  Berthe  spoke  up  eagerly.  She  said  that  the  two 
gentlemen  were  to  meet  them  later  in  the  day.  At  least  she 
hoped  so,  but — no,  no,  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  it!  Yet  her 


Swordsmanship  in  the  Dark  61 

words  faltered,  and  there  was  an  appeal  in  them.  But  if 
she  placed  any  hope  in  the  strange  American,  she  was  quickly 
disappointed. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  as  if  the  matter  were  of  no  further  con- 
sequence. "Then  I  can  make  a  nice  comfortable  report  to 
Maximilian." 

"Report  to  Maximiliano ? "  exclaimed  Murguia. 

Driscoll  nodded  indifferently. 

"But  Senor  Coronel,  when  you  do,  you — you  will  remem- 
ber that  I  said  nothing  to — that  is,  to  persuade  the  senoritas  to 
take  this  journey." 

"Nor  not  to  take  it,  Wriggler." 

"Yet  you  will  say  to  His  Majesty  that  I  did  suggest — yes,  I 
do  now — that  they  had  better  not " 

His  utterance  drivelled  to  incoherency.  The  Mexican 
woman,  she  of  the  cafe*,  stood  before  him.  There  was  a 
warning  on  her  stolid  countenance.  Murguia  wet  his  lips. 
"But,"  he  stammered,  "there — oh  what  danger  can  there  be 
in  their  going  ?  " 

Driscoll  shoved  him  aside  and  placed  himself  at  the  head 
of  Jacqueline's  horse.  "You  had  better  risk  the  water,  miss," 
he  said  quietly. 

"My  good  sir,"  she  replied,  clear  and  cold,  "I  commend  your 
prudence,  in  making  certain,  before  you  dared  touch  my  bridle- 
rein,  that  neither  of  the  two  gentlemen  were  here." 

Din  Driscoll  swung  on  his  heel.  ' '  Damned ! "  he  murmured , 
and  he  pronounced  the  "n"  and  the  "d"  thoroughly,  to  make 
the  word  adequate  if  possible.  "Lord,  I  believe  I  feel  like  a 
closed  incident!  And  to  think,  Demijohn,"  he  went  on  as  he 
busied  himself  about  his  horse,  "to  think  that  it's  the  first  and 
only  time  we've  ever  seen  trouble  coming  and  tried  to  keep  out 
of  it." 

But  the  trouble  might  appear  now,  he  had  done  what  he 
could.  The  thought  brightened  him,  and  he  patted  his  short 


62  The  Missourian 

ribs  musingly.  There  was  a  friendly  protuberance  there  on 
either  side.  His  belt  sagged  comfortingly.  He  opened  the 
pack  which  he  was  tying  with  his  blanket  behind  his  saddle, 
and  from  it  he  filled  with  cartridges  the  pockets  of  his  rough 
cape  coat. 

By  now  the  caravan  was  passing  him.  The  burros,  like 
square-shelled  monstrosities  with  ears,  were  settling  into  a 
steady  trot.  Their  blanketed  arrieros  ran  beside  them  and 
prodded,  and  were  in  turn  prodded  by  the  fretful  Murguia. 
Then  Jacqueline  rode  by  on  an  ambling  little  mountain- 
climber.  She  had  forgotten  his  presence.  This  was  not  a 
pose  with  the  Marquise  d'Aumerle;  she  had,  really.  But  her 
little  Breton  maid  coming  behind  timidly  drew  rein.  Driscoll 
looked  and  saw  in  the  moving  yellow  torchlights  that  her  face 
was  white.  A  thing  like  that  somehow  alters  a  man's  attitude. 
"W'y,  child,"  he  exclaimed,  "what's " 

"Monsi — senor,"  she  said  hastily,  in  pathetic  and  pretty 
broken  Spanish,  "you,  oh,  you  will  not  leave  us!  In  the  mercy 
of  heaven,  tell  me  that  you  will  not!  Ah,  seigneur,"  she 
sobbed,  "mademoiselle  will  yet  lead  us  to  our  death!" 

"Berthe,"  mademoiselle  at  that  instant  called,  "oh  you  little 
ninny,  are  you  coming  ever?" 

The  maid  obeyed.  "Just  the  same,"  she  sighed,  "God 
bless  her!" 

"And  did  I,"  Driscoll  had  begun  angrily,  but  she  was  already 
gone,  and  he  finished  it  to  himself,  "did  I  once  intend  to  leave 
you  ?  " 

He  leaped  astride  his  buckskin  horse,  who  trotted  with  him 
briskly  to  the  head  of  the  caravan.  Behind  was  Anastasio 
Murguia,  a  quaint  combination  of  silk  hat,  shawl,  and  ranchero 
saddle.  The  two  Frenchwomen  followed,  and  behind  came 
the  straggling  file  of  burros  and  pack  horses. 

Yet  the  American  was  as  a  solitary  traveller  leaving  a  town 
for  the  wilderness  at  the  first  touch  of  dawn.  The  road  soon 


Swordsmanship  in  the  Dark  63 

narrowed  down  to  a  trail  as  it  wound  through  the  undergrowth 
of  the  Huasteca  lowlands,  then  westward  toward  a  bluish  line 
of  mountains.  At  each  cross  trail  the  American  would  turn 
in  his  saddle  to  force  an  indication  of  their  course  from  Mur- 
guia.  Then  on  he  would  ride  again,  the  while  sinking  deeper 
and  deeper  into  his  thoughts;  thoughts  of  why  he  had  come, 
of  how  he  might  succeed,  and  of  the  Surrender  at  that  moment 
perhaps  a  fact.  For  him,  though,  there  was  his  sabre  yet, 
dangling  there  under  his  leg.  And  there  were  the  sabres  of 
comrades  that  likewise  would  not  be  given  up,  for  to  save  them 
that  shame  was  he  in  Mexico.  Riding  there,  so  much  alone, 
and  lonely,  he  was  a  rough,  savage,  military  figure.  But  in 
his  meditations,  so  grave  and  unwonted  in  the  wild,  hard- 
riding  trooper  lad.  there  was  nothing  to  indicate  a  second 
nature  in  him,  an  instinct  that  was  on  the  alert  against  every 
leafy  clump  and  cactus  and  mesh  of  vine. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  THOUGHTS  OF  YOUTH  MAY  BE  PRODIGIOUSLY  LONG 
THOUGHTS 

"  And  many  a  Knot  unravell'd  by  the  Road; 
But  not  the  Master-Knot  of  Human  Fate." 

— Omar. 

ANOTHER  young  person,  Jacqueline  herself,  was  also  pon- 
dering rather  soberly  this  morning.  And  her  thoughts  fitted 
as  oddly  with  her  piquant,  lightsome,  cynical  youth  as  the 
gloomily  patriotic  ones  of  the  Storm  Centre  did  with  his  youth, 
which  was  robust  and  boyish  and  swashbuckling.  To  judge 
from  the  way  their  brains  worked  now,  both  young  people 
might  have  been  grave  wielders  of  state  affairs,  instead  of  the 
lad  and  the  lass  so  heartily  and  pettily  scorning  each  other  a 
short  hour  before. 

Yes,  the  great  rugged  Missourian  had  his  disdain  too,  and 
for  none  other  than  the  darling  beauty  of  two  imperial  courts. 
The  beauty  would  have  been  vastly  amused,  no  doubt,  had 
she  known  of  the  phenomenon.  But  knowing  a  little  more, 
such  as  its  source  and  the  man  himself,  she  must  have  flushed 
and  drooped,  piteously  hurt,  as  none  in  her  own  circle  could 
have  wounded  her.  The  shafts  which  flashed  in  that  circle 
were  keenly  barbed.  They  were  the  more  merciless  for  being 
politely  gilded.  But  she  understood,  and  despised,  the 
point  of  view  there.  It  was  a  dais  of  velvet,  of  scarlet  velvet. 
And  a  worldly  little  gentlewoman  like  the  Marquise  Jeanne 
was  not  one  to  be  unaware  of  the  abyss  beneath,  of 
which  the  flaming  color  was  a  symbol.  But  she  rather 

64 


The  Thoughts  of  Youth  65 

enjoyed  the  darts,  if  only  to  fling  them  back  more 
dazzlingly  tipped. 

The  perspective  of  the  Missouri  boy  was  different.  And 
his  disdain  was  different.  A  titled  belle  mattered  little  with 
him,  and  was  apart,  like  the  girl  in  a  spectacular  chorus. 
Operettas  and  royal  courts  were  shows,  which  real  men  and 
women  paid  to  see,  and  to  support.  He  was  a  deep-breathing, 
danger-nourished  man  of  life  and  of  things  that  count.  And 
his  only  cynicism,  and  even  that  unconscious,  was  the  dry 
honest  sort  which  sheer  unpolished  naturalness  bears  to  all 
things  trivial  and  vain  and  artificial.  One  can  readily  under- 
stand, then,  the  attitude  of  such  a  man  toward  a  playactor 
off  the  stage;  toward  a  playactor,  that  is,  who  thinks  to  impress 
the  great,  wide,  live  world  with  the  superficial  mannerisms  of 
his  little  playacting  world.  Here  was  Din  Driscoll,  Jack 
Driscoll,  Trooper  Driscoll,  here  he  was,  traveling  near  a  hand- 
some young  woman  who  for  the  moment  had  been  cut  off 
from  her  precious  wee  sphere.  And  he  saw  her  outside  of  it, 
playing  coquettishly,  and  to  her  own  mind,  seriously;  playing 
bewitchingly  her  shallow  role  patterned  after  life,  yet  without 
once  realizing  the  counterfeit.  The  Western  country  boy, 
whatever  his  Cavalier  stock,  had  a  Puritanical  backbone  in 
common  with  the  whole  American  race.  And  without  being 
aware  of  it,  his  personal,  private  bearing  toward  the  light  and 
airy  French  girl  was  a  sneer,  a  tolerant,  good-natured  and 
indifferent  sneer. 

However,  Mademoiselle  la  Marquise  was  neither  amused 
nor  hurt,  because,  quite  simply,  she  rode  in  happy  oblivion 
of  the  rustic  and  his  standards  for  the  appraising  of  a  girl. 
He  looked  very  straight  of  neck  and  spine,  and  she  wondered 
if  he  had  been  cradled  in  a  saddle,  but  that  was  all. 

Now  if  Lieutenant-Colonel  Driscoll  had  had  the  slightest 
glimpse  of  what  was  actually  passing  through  the  winsome 
and  supposedly  silly  little  head  behind  him,  there  is  no  reliable 


66  The  Missourian 

telling  into  what  change  of  opinion  he  might  have  been  jostled. 
But  this  is  certain,  that  if  he  had  known,  he  could  have  saved 
himself  some  rare  adventures  afterward. 

In  Jacqueline's  musings  there  was  poetry  and  there  were 
politics.  The  poetry  justified  the  politics;  moreover,  was 
their  inspiration.  A  dilettante  such  as  Jacqueline,  aesthetic 
and  delicately  sensitive,  was  naturally  a  lover  of  the  beautiful 
in  her  search  after  emotions.  A  sentiment  for  her  surroundings 
came  now  as  a  matter  of  course.  If  she  turned,  she  beheld 
the  chaparral  plain  stretching  flatly  back  of  her  to  the  sands 
and  lagoons  of  the  coast.  If  she  flirted  her  whip  overhead, 
down  hurtled  a  shower  of  bright  yellow  hail  from  the  laden 
boughs.  Her  nostrils  told  her  of  magnolias  and  orange 
blossoms;  her  eyes  and  ears,  of  parrots  and  paroquets  and  every 
other  conceit  in  fantastic  plumage.  They  were  a  restless 
kaleidoscope  of  colors  blending  with  the  foliage,  and  from 
their  turmoil  they  might  have  been  quarreling  myriads,  and 
never  birds  of  a  paradise.  Little  red  monkeys  grinned  down 
at  her  as  they  raced  clutching  among  the  branches,  while  a  big 
bandy-legged  sambo,  an  exceedingly  ill-tempered  member  of 
the  same  family,  bawled  his  reproaches  in  a  tone  gruesomely 
human.  Now  and  then  her  horse  reared  from  an  adder 
squirming  underfoot,  or  she  would  see  a  torpid  boa  twined 
sluggishly  around  a  limb,  as  about  a  victim.  Once  in  a  jungle- 
like  place  she  experienced  something  akin  to  the  prized  ecstatic 
shudder  as  she  made  out  the  sleek  form  of  a  jaguar  slinking 
into  the  swamp.  The  ugliest  of  the  picturesque  "properties" 
was  a  monstrous  green  iguana  with  his  prickly  crest  and  horn 
and  slimy  eye,  basking  full  five  feet  along  a  rotten  log. 

But  the  things  of  horror  merely  gave  to  those  of  beauty  a 
needed  contrast,  and  did  not  hurt  the  poetry  in  the  least. 
They  were  every  one  on  the  same  grand,  wild  scale.  As  the 
palms,  for  instance,  rising  like  slender  columns  a  hundred 
feet  without  a  single  branch.  As  yet  other  palms,  which  were 


The  Thoughts  of  Youth  67 

plumed  at  the  summit  like  an  ostrich  wing;  or  as  the  smaller 
ones  at  their  base,  spreading  out  into  fans  of  emerald  green. 
Again,  as  the  forest  giants  which  far  overhead  were  the  arches 
of  a  watercourse,  like  the  nave  of  a  Gothic  cathedral.  And 
even  the  parasite  vines  were  of  the  same  Titan  designing,  for 
they  bound  the  girders  of  the  vault  in  a  dense  mat  of  leaves 
and  woven  twigs,  while  underfoot  the  carpet  was  soft  inches 
deep  with  fern  and  moss.  As  for  the  flowers — Jacqueline 
wanted  to  pluck  them  all,  to  wreathe  the  wondering  fawns,  as 
ladies  with  picture  hats  do  in  the  old  frivolous  rococo  fantasies. 
And  as  to  that,  she  might  have  been  one  of  those  Watteau 
ladies  herself,  so  rich  was  the  coloring  there,  and  she  in  the 
foreground  so  white,  so  soft  of  skin,  so  sylvan  and  aristocratic 
a  shepherdess. 

And  then  it  was  a  thing  for  wonderment,  that  beyond,  where 
the  mountains  were,  all  this  world  changed,  yet  changed  to 
another  as  strange  and  vast.  And  that  still  farther  on  there 
stretched  yet  other  regions,  and  each  one  different,  and  each 
no  less  marvelous  and  grand.  A  bewildering  prodigality  of 
Nature,  spelling  the  little  word  "romance"!  Jacqueline's 
lip  quivered  as  she  gazed  and  imagined,  and  as  the  poetry  of 
it  filled  her  soul.  But  of  a  sudden  the  little  woman  sighed.  It 
was  a  sigh  of  rebellion.  And  just  here  the  politics  leaped  forth, 
inspired  of  the  wild  thrilling  beauty  of  the  world. 

"To  think,"  she  half  cried,  "that  we  are  losing  this — all 
this!  And  yet  we  have  won  it!  Mon  Dieu,  have  we  not 
won  it?  Yet  for  whom,  alas?  Maximilian? — Faw,  an  un- 
grateful puppet  such  as  that,  to  have,  to  take  from  us,  such 
as — this!  Now  suppose,"  her  h'ps  formed  the  unuttered 
words,  while  her  gray  eyes  closed  to  a  narrowing  cunning, 
"just  suppose  that  we — that  someone — reminds  His  Majesty 
how  ingratitude  falls  short  of  courtesy  between  emperors." 

The  boy's  thoughts  were  of  the  country  he  had  lost.  Those 
of  the  resplendent  and  wayward  butterfly  were  of  an  empire 


68  The  Missourian 

she  meant  to  gain.  But  in  her,  who  might  suspect  the  con- 
summate diplomat  ?  Even  then  she  was  speaking  to  Murguia, 
asking  if  it  were  not  time  that  Fra  Diavolo  remembered  his 
engagements.  Driscoll  heard  the  query,  and  his  comment 
was  a  mental  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 


CHAPTER  IX 
TOLL-TAKING  IN  THE  HUASTECA 

"And  when  he  came  bold  Robin  before, 
Robin  asked  him  courteously, 
'O,  hast  thou  any  money  to  spare, 
For  my  merry  men  and  me  ? ' " 

— Robin  Hood. 

FOR  all  his  campaigner's  instincts,  the  first  of  DriscolPs 
expected  troubles  came  and  was  gone  before  he  knew  that  it 
was  trouble.  It  arrived  so  naturally,  and  was  so  well  behaved! 
With  a  stop  for  a  bowl  of  coffee  at  a  roadside  fonda,  they  had 
been  traveling  for  perhaps  five  hours,  when  Driscoll  saw  the 
heads  of  two  horses  and  their  riders  over  the  brush,  and  at  a 
turn  in  the  trail  he  found  that  they  were  coming  leisurely 
toward  him.  He  observed  them  suspiciously,  and  wistfully. 
The  wild  tropics  around  him  had  quite  won  his  heart  as  pecu- 
liarly adapted  to  violent  amusements  of  a  desperate  tinge, 
far  more  so  really  than  his  own  Missouri  woodlands.  Yet 
thus  far  the  uneventful  tameness  had  depressed  him  as  a  shame- 
ful waste  of  environment. 

To  boot  all,  here  was  this  brace  of  villainous,  well-armed 
Mexicans  not  giving  the  least  promise  of  entertainment.  There 
was  nothing  to  distinguish  them  from  the  usual  sun-baked 
rancheros  of  the  Huasteca,  unless  it  were  the  first  man's  straw 
sombrero,  the  heavy  silver  mounting  of  which  must  have  been 
worth  in  bullion  alone  a  fair  pocketful  of  pesos.  There 
was  a  cord  of  silver  hanging  over  the  broad  brim,  and  there 
was  a  silver  "T"  on  one  side  of  the  sugar  loaf,  an  "M"  on  the 

69 


70  The  Missourian 

other  side,  and  a  Roman  sword  in  front,  and  all  three  were 
linked  together  in  fanciful  silver  scrolls.  But  the  rest  of  the 
man  was  wretched.  His  feet  were  encased  in  the  guaraches, 
or  sandals,  of  a  peon.  One  of  his  eyes  was  so  crossed  that 
hardly  more  than  a  baleful  crescent  was  ever  visible.  The 
other  vaquero,  his  companion,  had  no  relieving  trait  at  all, 
either  luxurious  or  strikingly  evil.  His  breeches  of  raw 
leather  flapped  loosely  from  the  knee  down,  and  at  the  sides 
they  were  slit,  revealing  the  dirty  white  of  cotton  calzoncillos 
beneath.  Though  the  April  morning  was  hot,  a  crimson 
scrape  covered  his  shoulders.  Both  men  had  pistols,  and 
each  also  had  a  long  machete  two  inches  wide  hanging  with 
a  lariat  from  his  saddle. 

They  lifted  their  sombreros,  and  he  of  the  gorgeous  one 
inquired  if  that  were  Don  Anastasio's  outfit  coming  up  behind. 
A  civil  answer  was  merest  traveler's  courtesy,  and  Driscoll 
reluctantly  took  his  cob  pipe  from  his  mouth  to  reckon  that 
they  were  pretty  nearly  correct.  He  might  have  loaned  them 
a  thousand  dollars,  to  judge  from  their  gratitude,  and  they  made 
way  for  him  by  drawing  off  the  trail  entirely.  Here  they 
halted  till  all  the  burros  and  horses  had  gone  by.  The  mule- 
teers in  passing  them,  confusedly  touched  their  hats.  Murguia, 
who  was  then  in  the  rear,  stopped  when  he  saw  the  two  strangers. 
Driscoll  looked  back,  but  judged  from  the  greetings  that  the 
three  were  old  acquaintances.  The  assiduously  respectful 
bearing  of  the  timorous  old  man  was  to  be  counted  as  only 
habitual.  And  when  he  saw  one  of  Don  Anastasio's  mozos 
bring  a  bottle  and  glasses,  he  was  completely  reassured,  and 
rested  like  the  others  of  the  caravan  some  little  distance  ahead. 

Murguia  dismissed  the  mozo,  himself  poured  the  cognac, 
and  begged  the  honor  of  drinking  health  and  many  pesetas  to 
his  two  "friends."  They  craved  a  like  boon,  and  the  clinking 
of  the  copitas  followed  ceremoniously. 

"I  counted  three  hundred  and  sixty-eight  half-bales,"  said 


Toll-Taking  in  the  Huasteca  71 

he  of  the  crossed  eye,  with  a  head  cocked  sideways  and  tilted. 
The  evidence  was  against  it,  but  Murguia  knew  well  enough 
that  the  sinister  crescent  was  fixed  on  himself.  "Three- 
sixty-eight,  at  half  a  peso  each,  that  makes  one  hundred  and 
eighty-four  pesos  which  Your  Mercy  owes  us,  Don  Anastasio. 
Add  on  collection  charges,  ten  per  cent. — well,  with  your 
permission,  we'll  call  it  two  hundred  flat." 

Don  Anastasio  manifested  an  itch  for  argument. 

"Oh  leave  all  that,"  he  of  the  crimson  scrape  broke  in. 
"Why  go  over  it  again?  We  are  loyal  imperialists,  and  only 
our  lasting  friendship  for  you  holds  us  from  informing  His 
Majesty's  Contras  how  you  contribute  to  that  arch  rebel, 
Rodrigo  Galan." 

"But,"  weakly  protested  Murguia,  "but  who  believes  that 
Don  Rodrigo  turns  any  of  it  over  to  the  Liberal — to  the  rebel 
cause  ? " 

"A  swollen-lunged  patriot  like  your  Don  Rodrigo — of 
course  he  does,  every  cent,"  and  the  cross-eye  took  on  a  jocular 
gleam. 

"Now,  Senor  Murguia,"  he  of  the  same  eye  continued,  "the 
favor  of  your  attention.  See  that  *T'  on  my  sombrero? 
That's  'Tiburcio.'  See  that  'M'?  That's  'Maximiliano.' 
And  that  sword?  That's  'Woe  to  the  Conquered,'  at  least 

the  sombrero  maker  said  so.  Well,  Don  Anastasio " 

and  he  ended  with  a  gesture  that  the  poor  trader  saw  even  in 
his  dreams,  the  unctuous  rubbing  of  fingers  on  the  thumb. 

Sadly  Don  Anastasio  unstrapped  a  belt  under  his  black 
vest,  and  counted  out  in  French  gold  the  equivalent  of  two 
hundred  Mexican  dollars. 

Don  Tiburcio  took  the  money,  and  observed,  as  in  the 
nature  of  pleasant  gossip,  that  Don  Anastasio  had  quite  an 
unusual  outfit  this  time. 

Murguia  took  alarm  immediately.  "Not  so  large  as  usual, 
Don  Tiburcio.  The  crops  up  there " 


72  The  Missourian 

"Crops?  No,  I  don't  mean  your  cotton.  I  mean  fine 
linen  and  muslin,  and  silks,  and  laces — petticoats  and  stock- 
ings, Don  Anastasio." 

"They — they  are  Don  Rodrigo's  affairs,  not  mine." 

"Enough  yours  for  you  to  be  anxious  to  deliver  the  goods 
safely,  I  think.  But  the  rate  on  that  class  of  stuff  is  rather 
high.  Now  what  do  you  suppose,  my  esteemed  compadre, 
Don  Rodrigo  would  say  if  we  had  to  confiscate  the  consign- 
ment?" 

But  Don  Anastasio  did  not  need  to  suppose.  "How  much ? " 
he  whimpered. 

"Well,  with  the  American " 

"Fires  of  hell  consume  the  American!  Collect  your  tolls 
from  him  yourself.  He's  no  affair  of  anybody's." 

The  vaqueros  laughed.  "We'll  throw  in  the  American  for 
nothing,"  said  Don  Tiburcio  generously.  "Besides,  to  look 
at  him,  he  may  not  be  very — tollable.  But  delicate  dress 
goods  now,  there's  a  heavy  duty  on  them.  I  should  say 
a  hundred  apiece."  And  without  any  seeming  reference 
to  this  revenue  statement,  the  toll  taker  placed  the  tip 
of  an  index  finger  under  each  ear,  then  pointed  them 
lower  down  against  his  throat,  then  lower  again,  and  at 
the  last  the  two  fingers  met  in  an  acute  angle,  significantly 
acute,  under  his  chin,  while  the  half-veiled  black  bead 
in  the  outer  corner  of  his  eye  had  a  sheen  unutterably  merry 
and  malignant. 

The  pantomime  bore  a  money  value,  for  Murguia  stifled  his 
wrath,  again  drew  out  the  belt,  and  more  Napoleons  changed 
hands.  Murguia  was  then  for  remounting,  leaving  the  flask 
of  brandy  with  the  two  imperialist  emissaries,  as  had  become 
his  custom.  But  the  jovial  Tiburcio  stopped  him.  "What 
must  you  think  of  us,  Don  Anastasio?"  he  exclaimed  contritely. 
"We  haven't  offered  you  a  drink  yet."  Murguia  dared  not 
refuse,  and  he  paused  for  the  return  of  hospitality  from  his 


Toll-Taking  in  the  Huasteca  73 

own  bottle.  At  last  he  was  on  his  horse,  when  Tiburcio  again 
called, 

"I  say,  Don  Anastasio,  if  you  want  a  big  return  for  your 
money" — Don  Anastasio  halted  instantly — "if  you  do,  well, 
we  ought  not  to  say  it,  being  devoted  to  Maximiliano.  But 
no  matter,  I  will  tell  you  this  much,  poor  old  man — look  after 
your  daughter!  Look  after  her,  Don  Anastasio!  We've 
just  come  from  up  there." 

A  half  cry  escaped  the  father  as  he  jerked  back  his  horse. 
He  demanded  what  they  meant.  He  pleaded.  But  they  waved 
him  to  go  on,  and  rode  away  indifferently,  taking  a  cross  trail 
through  a  stretch  of  timber. 

Rigid,  motionless,  Murguia  looked  after  them  until  they 
had  disappeared.  But  when  they  were  gone,  a  frenzy  possessed 
him.  He  turned  and  galloped  to  his  caravan,  which  was 
again  moving.  He  did  not  stop  till  he  reached  the  American. 
"You  owe  me  two  hundred  dollars,"  he  cried.  Thus  his 
decent  emotion  concerning  his  daughter  found  vent.  "Two 
hundred,  I  tell  you!" 

"Will  you,"  asked  Driscoll,  "take  'em  now,  or  after  you  tell 
me  what  I  owe  'em  for?" 

Murguia  wavered.  The  simple  question  brought  him  to  his 
senses.  But  he  had  gone  too  far  not  to  explain.  Besides, 
his  insane  device  for  reimbursing  himself  appealed  to  him  as 
good.  "Because — don't  you  know,  senor,  that  travelers 
here  must  pay  toll?  You  don't?  But  it's  true,  and — and 
I've  just  paid  out  two  hundred  pesos  on  Your  Mercy's 
account." 

The  trooper's  brown  eyes  flashed.  "Which  way  did  those 
thieves  go?"  he  demanded.  "Quick!  Which  way?" 

Murguia's  avarice  changed  to  trembling.  He  feared  to  tell. 
Driscoll  caught  his  bridle.  "Which  way,  or  by — by — Never 
mind,  you'll  pay  toll  to  me,  too!  I'll  just  learn  this  toll-taking 
trade  myself." 


74  The  Missourian 

Murguia  saw  a  six-shooter  sliding  out.     "You  also!"  he 

cried. 
"Also?"  laughed  Driscoll.    "There,  I  knew  it,  they  were 

robbers." 

He  wheeled  and  rode  back  with  the  fury  of  a  cavalry  charge, 
heedless  of  Murguia's  cries  to  stop  by  all  the  saints,  heedless 
of  the  saints  too.  Murguia  did  not  care  what  happened  to  his 
guest,  but  he  cared  for  what  might  happen  to  himself,  after- 
ward, at  the  hands  of  Don  Tiburcio  and  partner.  He  fran- 
tically called  out  that  he  was  jesting,  that  Driscoll  owed  him 
nothing.  But  Driscoll  had  already  turned  into  the  side  trail, 
and  was  following  the  hoof  prints  there.  Murguia  could  hear 
the  furious  crackling  of  twigs  as  he  raced  through  the  timber. 
But  in  a  little  while  he  heard  and  saw  nothing. 

"He's  a  centaur,  that  country  boy,"  observed  Jacqueline 
critically.     "The     identical     break-neck     Centaur    himself. 
Really,  Berthe,  I  think  we  shall  have  to  dub  him  Monsieur 
the  Chevalier.     Why  Berthe,  how  pale  you  are!" 

"I?    Oh,  mademoiselle,  is  there  any  danger?" 

"Danger,  child?    Nonsense!" 

"But  what  made  him  do  that,  that  way?" 

"Poor  simple  babe!  That  was  a  pose.  Our  mule  driver 
knows  he  can  ride,  but  we  did  not.  And  there  you  are." 

"But  the  little  monsieur,  he  looks  like  a  ghost?" 

Jacqueline  laughed.  "That,  I  admit,  is  not  a  pose.  With 
the  h'ttle  monsieur,  it's  become — constitutional." 

A  half-hour  later  they  heard  an  easy  canter  behind  them, 
and  Din  Driscoll  reappeared,  flushed  and  happy  as  a  boy 
pounding  in  first  from  a  foot  race.  His  left  hand  covered  the 
bowl  of  his  cob  pipe  from  the  wind,  the  other  held  his  slouch 
hat  doubled  up  by  the  brim.  As  for  bridle  hand,  old  Demijohn 
needed  none.  Driscoll  seized  Murguia's  silk  tile  and  poured 
into  it  from  the  slouch  a  shimmering  stream  of  coin  and  a  mass 
of  crumpled  paper. 


Toll-Taking  in  the  Huasteca  75 

"To  be  rcbbed  while  I'm  along,  now  that  makes  me  mad" 
he  said.  "You  won't  tell  anybody,  will  you,  Murgie?" 

The  old  man  did  not  hear.  His  palsied  hands  were  dipping 
down,  dipping  down,  bathing  themselves  in  the  deep  silk  hat. 
The  hat  was  heavy  with  gold  and  silver  pesos,  and  foaming 
with  bills. 

"Greenbacks,  Confederate  notes,"  he  mumbled.  "Some 
I've  paid  before — only,  lately,  the  rascals  won't  take  anything 
but  coin." 

"Why's  that,  Murgie?" 

"Why,  because  these  green  things  are  not  worth  much  now, 
while  these  gray  ones" — he  fingered  them  contemptuously — 
"would  not,  would  not  buy  a  drunkard's  pardon  from  our 
cheapest  magistrate." 

The  slur  on  Mexican  justice  only  emphasized  his  scorn  of 
the  Confederate  notes. 

"Give  'em  here!"  Driscoll  snatched  them  from  the  yellow, 
desecrating  fingers.  "These  here  are  promises,"  he  muttered, 
"and  we've  been  fighting  for  four  years  to  make  them  good. 
For  four  years,  even  the  children  and  old  men,  and — yes,  and 
the  women  folks  back  of  us!" 

The  impulsive  mood  carried  him  further.  He  counted  and 
pocketed  the  despised  notes.  Then  from  an  humble  tobacco 
pouch  he  sorted  out  a  number  of  British  sovereigns,  and  flung 
them  into  Murguia's  hat. 

"Prob'bly  my  last  blow  for  them  promises,"  he  murmured 
to  himself. 

Meantime  a  burro  back  of  them  had  become  possessed'  of 
an  idea,  which  for  some  reason  necessitated  his  halting  stock 
still  directly  across  the  trail  to  think  it  over.  The  caravan 
behind  stopped  also,  while  the  arrieros  snorted  "Ar-re!"  and 
"Bur-ro!"  through  their  noses,  and  prodded  the  beast.  Jac- 
queline lost  patience.  She  touched  her  horse,  which  bounded 
out  of  the  trail  and  galloped  past  the  outfit  almost  to  Driscoll 


76  The  Missourian 

and  Murguia.  So  she  had  seen  the  exchange  of  money  and 
she  had  heard.  She  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  trooper's 
straight  line  of  back  and  shoulder. 

"Monsieur  the  Chevalier,"  she  murmured  softly,  as  though 
trying  the  sound  of  the  words  for  the  first  time.  She  would 
have  supposed  that  none  but  a  Frenchman  could  have  done 
that. 

As  to  Don  Anastasio,  the  Quixotic  redemption  in  specie 
was  beyond  him  entirely.  He  gave  it  up.  The  counting  of 
discs  was  more  tangible  to  his  philosophy.  His  rusty  black 
tile,  so  wondrously  become  a  cornucopia  of  wealth,  had  by 
that  same  magic  upset  the  old  fellow  into  a  kind  of  hysterical 
gaiety,  which  was  most  elfish  and  uncanny.  He  motioned 
Driscoll  to  ride  faster. 

"Ai,  ai,  mi  coronel,"  he  cackled,  when  they  were  gone  out 
of  hearing,  "you  talk  of  bandits!  Ai,  ai,  Dios  mio,  you  have 
robbed  them!'- 

"What  the  devil " 

"Si  sefior,  robbed  them!  A-di-o-dio-dios!  here's  more  than 
they  took  from  me!" 

"N-o?"  said  Driscoll  in  dismay.  "Gracious,  I  hadn't 
any  time  to  count  money  when  I  searched  'em!" 

"You!— searched   Don   Tiburcio?" 

"Why  not?    Isn't  he  a  thief?" 

"But— he  permitted " 

"W'y  yes,  they  both  let  me,  I  had  the  drop.  But  they 
got  indignant  and  called  me  a  thief— I  believe  they'd  of  called 

a  policeman  if  there'd  been  one  handy,  or  even Now 

what,"  he  exclaimed,  "what  ails  the  old  bare-bones  now?" 

The  senile  mirth  had  left  the  trader's  face,  and  his  olive 
skin  was  ashen.  "Next  time,"  he  moaned,  "next  time,  Santa 
Maria,  they  will  be  in  force  and  they — they  will  take  the  very 
horse  from  under  me!" 

"Tough  luck,"  Driscoll  observed. 


Toll-Taking  in  the  Huasteca  77 

Murguia  darted  at  him  a  look  in  which  there  was  all  the 
old  hate,  and  more  added.  But  it  disturbed  the  trooper  as 
little  as  ever.  "Come,"  he  said,  "own  up.  You  knew  we 
were  going  to  meet  those  fellows?"  Murguia  said  nothing. 
"  Of  course  you  knew.  But  why  didn't  you  change  your  route, 
seeing  you're  too  high-minded  to  fight? — What's  that? — Oh 
that  voice!  Dive  for  it,  man!" 

"I,  I  couldn't  change  on  account  of  my  passport." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"In  the  passport  I  declare  the  route  I  take." 

"I  see,  and  you  can't  change  it  afterward?" 

"No." 

"Now  look  here,  Murgie,  have  you  got  any  more  of  these 
dates  on? — Yes?  No? — Murgie,  if  you  don't  dive,  by " 

Murgufa  dove,  and  denied  with  eagerness  that  he  had  any 
further  toll-paying  appointments.  But  Driscoll  reckoned 
that  he  was  lying.  "And,"  he  added,  "we  are  going  to  change 
our  route,  passport  or  no  passport.  We'll  take — let's  see — 
yes,  we'll  take  the  very  next  crosstrail  going  in  the  same 
general  direction." 

Murguia's  alarm  at  the  proposal  belied  his  former  denial. 
The  law  required  him  to  follow  the  course  laid  down  in  his 
passport,  but  he  feared  the  law  less  than  the  disappointment 
of  road  agents.  Don  Tiburcio's  receipt  protected  him  from 
those  controlled  by  Don  Tiburcio.  But  Tiburcio  was  not 
powerful,  except  in  blackmail.  Murguia  paid  him  lest  he 
inform  the  government  of  tribute  also  paid  to  Don  Rodrigo. 
Now  Rodrigo  Galan  was  powerful.  His  band  infested  the 
Huasteca.  He  called  himself  a  Liberal  and  a  patriot,  and  he 
really  believed  it  too.  But  he  also  declared  that  the  tolls  he 
collected  went  to  the  revolutionary  cause,  which  declaration, 
however,  even  he  could  hardly  have  believed. 

Don  Rodrigo  gave  receipts,  and  his  receipts  were  alleged 
guarantee  against  other  molestation,  since  he  controlled  the 


7g  The  Missourian 

highway  more  thoroughly  than  ranger  patrols  had  ever  done. 
But  lately  a  competitor  had  appeared  in  the  brush,  and  he 
was  that  humorous  scoundrel,  Don  Tiburcio  of  the  crossed  eye. 
Goaded  near  to  apoplexy  by  the  double  tolls,  Murguia  had 
once  ventured  to  upbraid  Don  Rodrigo  with  breach  of  contract. 
There  was  no  longer  immunity  in  the  roadmaster's  receipts, 
he  whined.  Then  the  robber  chief  had  scowled  with  the  brow 
of  Jove,  and  hurled  dreadful  oaths.  "You  pay  an  Imperial- 
ista!"  he  stormed  in  lofty  indignation.  "You  give  funds 
to  put  down  your  struggling,  starving  compatriots!  So,  sen  or, 
this  is  the  love  you  bear  your  country!" 

It  was  a  touching  harangue,  and  the  remorse-stricken  trader 
ever  after  denied  that  he  even  saw  Don  Tiburcio,  at  which 
times  a  queer  smile  would  supplant  Don  Rodrigo's  black 
frown. 

It  was  this  same  Don  Rodrigo  who  had  been  reported  as 
slain  by  Jacqueline's  Fra  Diavolo.  But  Driscoll,  not  having 
heard  of  his  death,  was  quite  ready  to  expect  more  brigands. 
He  insisted,  therefore,  on  changing  trails. 

"The  Senor  Coronel  is  most  valiant,"  sneered  Murguia. 

"So  darned  much  so,  Murgie,  that  I  want  to  dodge  'em." 

But  his  struggle  against  temptation  was  evident.  He 
glanced  back  at  the  two  women  and  again  denounced  the  un- 
familiar feminine  element  in  men's  affairs.  To  avoid  the 
brigandage  encounter  took  more  of  manhood  than  Don 
Anastasio  might  imagine  in  a  lifetime. 

But  they  had  not  followed  their  new  route  five  minutes  before 
Murguia  was  again  at  the  trooper's  side.  An  "  I-told-you-so  " 
smirk  hovered  on  his  pinched  visage.  "Segundino  has  gone," 
he  announced. 

"So  Segundino  has  gone?"  Driscoll  repeated.  "Well,  and 
who's  Segundino?" 

"He's  one  of  my  muleteers,  but  now  I  know  he  is  a  spy  too. 
He  will  tell  the  bri— if  there  are  brigands — where  to  meet  us." 


Toll-Taking  in  the  Huasteca  79 

Murguia  was  thinking,  too,  of  their  reproachful  increase  on 
collection  charges  for  the  extra  trouble. 

"Then,"  said  Driscoll,  "we'll  go  back  to  our  old  trail," 
which  they  did  at  once.  Soon  after  he  was  not  surprised  to 
hear  from  Murguia  that  "this  time  it  was  Juan  who  had  disap- 
peared." 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  set  a  close  watch  ?  " 

"Y-e-s,  but  what  was  the  use?  He  slipped  into  the  brush, 
and,"  the  trader  complained,  "I  can't  spare  any  more  drivers." 

"Don't  need  to.     We'll  just  keep  this  trail  now." 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  BRIGAND   CHIEF 

"Don  Rodrigo  de  Vivar, 
Rapaz,  orgulloso,  y  vano." 

— El  Cid. 

IMAGINE  an  abnormally  virtuous  urchin  and  an  abnormally 
kindly  farmer.  The  urchin  resolutely  turns  his  back  on  the 
farmer's  melon  patch,  though  there  is  no  end  of  opportunity. 
But  the  farmer  catches  him,  brings  him  in  by  the  ear,  makes 
him  choose  a  big  one,  and  leaves  him  there,  the  sole  judge  of 
his  own  capacity.  Driscoll  had  tried  to  dodge  a  fight,  but 
Fate  was  his  kindly  farmer. 

"Better  fall  back  a  little,  Murgie,"  he  said.  "You'd  only 
scare  'em,  you  know." 

He  himself  passed  on  ahead.  But  it  was  mid-afternoon 
before  anything  happened.  Jacqueline  meantime  had  shown 
some  pettish  ill-humor.  Those  who  had  fought  to  be  her 
escort  were  now  singularly  indifferent.  Driscoll  was  idly 
curious  and  quietly  contemptuous,  but  he  detected  no  fright 
in  her  manner.  "Fretting  for  her  silver-braided  Greaser," 
he  said  to  himself.  "A  pretty  scrape  she's  got  herself  into, 
too!  Now  I  wonder  why  a  girl  can't  have  any  sense."  But 
as  the  answer  was  going  to  take  too  long  to  find,  he  swerved 
back  to  the  simpler  matter  of  a  possible  fracas. 

"Well,  well,"  he  exclaimed  at  last,  rising  in  his  stirrups,  "if 
there  isn't  her  nickel-plated  hero  now!" 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  ahead,  mounted,  waiting  stock-still 
across  the  trail,  was  Fra  Diavolo.  The  American  put  away 

80 


The  Brigand  Chief  81 

his  pipe  and  barely  moved  his  spurred  boot,  yet  the  good 
buckskin's  ears  pointed  forward  and  he  trotted  ahead  briskly. 
From  old  guerrilla  habit,  the  cavalryman  noted  all  things  as 
he  rode.  To  his  left  the  blue  of  the  mountain  line,  being 
nearer  now,  had  deepened  to  black,  and  the  Sierra  seemed  to 
hang  over  him,  ominously.  But  the  dark  summits  were  still 
without  detail,  and  midway  down,  where  the  solid  color  broke 
into  deep  green  verdure  and  was  mottled  by  patches  of  dry 
slabs  of  rock,  there  was  yet  that  massive  blur  which  told  of 
distance.  Foot-hills  had  rolled  from  the  towering  slide,  and 
mounds  had  tumbled  from  the  hills,  and  a  tide  of  giant  pebbles 
had  swept  down  from  the  mounds.  These  rugged  boulders 
had  turned  the  trail,  so  that  the  American  was  riding  beneath 
a  kind  of  cliff.  To  his  right,  on  the  east  of  the  trail,  the  boul- 
ders were  smaller  and  scattered,  like  a  handful  of  great  marbles 
flung  across  the  cactus  plain.  He  may  have  glanced  toward 
this  side  especially,  at  the  clumps  of  spiny  growth  over  the 
pradera,  and  caught  glimpses  behind  the  strewn  rocks,  but 
his  look  was  casual,  unstartled.  He  breathed  deeply,  though. 
The  old  familiar  elation  set  him  vaguely  quivering  and  tingling, 
with  nervous,  subtle  desire.  The  young  animal's  excess  of 
life  surged  into  a  pain,  almost.  Even  the  buckskin,  knowing 
him,  took  his  mood,  and  held  high  his  nostrils. 

Fra  Diavolo's  peaked  beaver,  his  jacket,  his  breeches,  his 
high  pommeled  saddle,  his  great  box  stirrups,  the  carabine 
case  strapped  behind,  all  be-scrolled  with  silver,  danced  hazily 
to  the  magic  of  rays  slanting  down  from  the  lofty  Sierra  line. 
Like  himself,  his  horse  was  a  thing  of  spirited  flesh,  for  glorious 
display.  The  glossy  mane  flowed  luxuriantly.  The  tail 
curved  to  the  ground.  A  mountain  lion's  skin  covered  his 
flanks.  He  was  large  and  sleek  and  black,  with  the  metal  and 
pride  of  an  English  strain.  He  was  a  carved  war-charger. 
The  man  astride  was  rigid,  stately.  Man  and  horse  had  a 
heroic  statue's  promise  of  instant,  furious  life. 


g2  The  Missourian 

"Oh,  la  beaute  d'un  homme!"  cried  Jacqueline,  perceiving 
the  majestic  outline  silhouetted  against  the  rocks.  "Why,  why 
—it's  Fra  Diavolo!" 

"It — it  is!"  confessed  Murguia.  There  was  dread,  not  sur- 
prise, in  his  exclamation.  The  waiting  horseman,  and  a  lonely 
hut  there  behind  him— none  other  than  a  brigand  "toll-station" 
— these  were  but  too  significant  of  an  old  and  hated  rendezvous. 
Don  Anastasio  got  to  his  feet  and  nervously  hurried  his  caravan 
back  a  short  distance.  Then  he  ran  ahead  again  and  overtook 
the  two  Frenchwomen.  "Senoritas,  wait!  Neither  of  you 
need  go.  But  I  will — I  must,  but  I  can  go  alone,  while  you " 

"Why,  what  ails  the  man?" 

"Back,  senorita,  back,  before  he  sees  you!" 

Jacqueline  looked  at  the  imploring  eyes,  at  the  palsied  hand 
on  her  bridle.  "Berthe,"  she  said,  "here's  your  little  monsieur 
getting  constitutional  again." 

"You  will  go,  senorita?" 

"Parbleu!"  said  the  girl,  and  lashed  her  mustang. 

"Dios,  Dios,"  gasped  the  little  monsieur,  hurrying  after 
them,  "when  Maximiliano  hears  of  this 

"You  should  see  Maximilian  when  he  is  angry,"  Jacqueline 
called  over  her  shoulder.  "It  is  very  droll." 

Din  Driscoll  had  vaulted  to  the  ground  in  the  instant  of  halt- 
ing. Immediately  he  led  his  horse  behind  the  solitary  hut, 
which  was  a  jacal  of  bamboo  and  thatch  built  under  the  cliff, 
and  left  him  there.  Demijohn  was  a  seasoned  campaigner, 
and  he  would  not  move  until  his  trooper  came  for  him.  When 
Driscoll  emerged  again,  his  coat  was  over  his  left  arm, 
and  the  pockets  were  bulging.  Fra  Diavolo  had  already 
saluted  him,  but  gazed  down  the  trail  at  the  two  women 
approaching. 

"How  are  you,  captain?"  Driscoll  began  cordially. 

Fra  Diavolo  looked  down  from  his  mighty  seat.  "Ai,  mi 
coronel,  I  was  expecting  Your  Mercy." 


The  Brigand  Chief  83 

"Honest,  now?  Or  weren't  you  worrying  lest  I'd  got  left 
back  in  Tampico?" 

One  of  the  ranchero's  hands  rose,  palm  out,  deprecatingly. 

"But  someone  might  have  told  you  I  didn't  get  left  at  all," 
Driscoll  pursued.  "Segundino  maybe?  Or  was  it  Juan?" 

"Or  Don  Tiburcio?"  suggested  the  captain.  He  dis- 
mounted and  doffed  his  big  sombrero.  "Good,  I  see  you 
brought  Her  Ladyship  safely." 

"Or  I  myself,  rather,"  said  Jacqueline,  reining  in  her  pony 
at  the  moment,  "Ah,  the  Senor  Capitan  as  an  escort  knows 
how  to  make  himself  prized  by  much  anticipation." 

"Seiiorita!"  The  Mexican  bent  in  heavy  ceremony,  the 
sombrero  covering  his  breast.  "I  am  honored,  even  in  Your 
Mercy's  censure.  Those  who  deserve  it  could  not  appreciate 
it  more." 

"Forward  then,  captain.  On  with  the  excuses,  I  promise 
to  believe  them." 

"Those  sailors,  my  lady,  who  fight  with  kicks.  Ugh! — they 
attacked  some  of  my  men  this  morning  in  Tampico.  I  had 
to  call  at  the  fort  for  aid." 

"Oh,  but  Maximilian  shall  hear  of  this!" 

"I  think  he  will,"  and  Fra  Diavolo  bowed  again,  hiding  the 
gleam  of  a  smile.  "But  I  forget,  your  compatriot " 

"Monsieur  Ney? — Yes?" 

"He  meant  to  help  the  sailors " 

"But  he  was  not  hurt?" 

" Oh,  no,  no!    But  he  had  to  be  held  in  the  fort." 

"That  poor  Michel!" 

"So,"  the  syllable  fell  weightily,  as  if  to  crush  Ney  out  of  her 
thoughts,  "here  I  am  at  last,  to  claim  the  distinguished  pleasure 
of  seeing  Your  Ladyship  to  the  stage  at  Valles." 

Din  Driscoll  had  been  gazing  far  away  at  the  mountains,  his 
thumbs  tucked  in  his  belt.  He  stood  so  that  the  Mexican  was 
between  him  and  the  scattered  boulders  on  the  right  of  the 


84  The  Missourian 

trail.  Now  he  addressed  the  mountains.  "The  stage  at 

Valles?  There  is  no  stage  at  Valles And,  captain,"  he 

dropped  Nature  abruptly,  and  turned  on  the  man,  "who  are 
you,  hombre?  Come,  tell  us!" 

If  Fra  Diavolo  were  a  humbug,  he  was  not  nearly  so  dis- 
mayed as  one  might  expect.  For  that  matter,  neither  was 
Jacqueline.  She  inquired  of  Driscoll  how  he  knew  more 
about  stage  lines  than  the  natives  themselves.  Because  the 
natives  themselves  were  not  of  one  mind,  he  replied.  For 
instance,  Murgie's  muleteers  had  assured  him  fervidly  that 
there  was  such  a  stage,  whereas  passing  wayfarers  had  told  him 
quite  simply  that  there  was  not,  nor  ever  had  been. 

Jacqueline's  gray  eyes,  wide  open  and  full  lashed,  turned  on 
Fra  Diavolo.  "You  are,"  she  exclaimed,  noiselessly  clapping 
her  hands  as  at  a  play,  "then  you  are — Oh,  who  are  you?" 

The  Mexican  straightened  pompously.  "Who?"  he  re- 
repeated  deep  in  his  chest,  "who,  but  one  at  Your  Mercy's 
feet!  Who,  but— Rodrigo  Galan  himself!" 

"The  terrible  Rodrigo?"  She  wanted  complete  identifica- 
tion. 

He  looked  at  her  quickly.  The  first  darkening  of  a  frown 
creased  his  brow.  But  still  she  was  not  alarmed.  Berthe, 
however,  proved  more  satisfying.  "Oh,  my  dear  lady!"  she 
cried,  reining  in  her  horse  closer  to  her  mistress. 

"And  who,"  drawled  the  American  at  a  quizzical  pitch  of 
inquiry,  "may  Don  Rodrigo  be?" 

"What,  senor,"  thundered  the  robber,  "you  don't "  He 

stopped,  catching  sight  of  the  timorous  Murguia  hovering 
near.  "Then,  look  at  that  old  man,  for  he  at  least  knows 
that  he  is  in  the  presence  of  Don  Rodrigo.  He  is  trembling." 

But  Jacqueline  was — whistling.  The  bristling  highway- 
man swung  round  full  of  anger.  Driscoll  stared  at  her  amazed. 
Then  he  laughed  outright.  "Well,  well,  Honorable  Mr.  Buc- 
caneer of  the  Sierras,  now  maybe Yes,  that's  what  I 


The  Brigand  Chief  85 

mean,"  he  added  approvingly  as  Fra  Diavolo  leaped  astride 
his  charger  and  jerked  forth  two  pistols  from  their  holsters, 
"that's  it,  get  the  game  started!" 

Jacqueline's  red  lips  were  again  pursed  to  whistle,  but  she 
changed  and  hummed  the  refrain  instead: 

"Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine!" 

Driscoll  stared  at  her  harder.  The  words  were  strange  and 
meant  nothing.  But  there  was  a  familiarity  to  the  tune. 
That  at  least  needed  no  interpreter.  The  old  ballad  of  trouba- 
dours, the  French  war  song  of  old,  the  song  of  raillery,  the  song 
of  Revolution,  this  that  had  been  a  folk  song  of  the  Crusader, 
a  Basque  rhyme  of  fairy  lore,  the  air  known  in  the  desert  tents 
of  Happy  Arabia,  known  to  the  Jews  coming  out  of  Egypt, 
known  to  the  tribes  in  the  days  without  history  or  fifes — why, 
if  this  wasn't  the  rollicking,  the  defiant  paean  of  Americans! 
But  how  came  she  by  it,  and  by  what  right  ? 

"'And  we  wont  go  home  till  morning,'"  he  joined  in, 
inquisitively. 

The  girl  paused,  as  explorers  singing  it  have  paused  when 
savages  never  before  seen  by  white  men  joined  in  with  bar- 
barian words.  But  she  went  on,  letting  the  miracle  be  as  it 
might. 

" '  The  news  I  bear,  fair  lady *  " 

she  sang,  and  nodded  at  the  bandit,  to  indicate  that  here  was 
his  line, 

" '  The  news  I  bear,  fair  lady, 
Will  cause  your  eyes  to  weep.' " 

"' Till  daylight  doth  appear,'"  Driscoll  finished  it  with  her. 

Then  both  looked  up  like  two  children,  to  the  awful  presence 
on  horseback. 

Don  Rodrigo  was  at  some  pains  to  recover  himself.  A 
helpless  girl  and  one  lone  trooper  were  practising  a  duet 
under  his  very  frown.  Only  a  glance  toward  the  boulders 
and  cacti  reassured  him. 


86  The  Missourian 

"Well,  what  next?"  Jacqueline  demanded  sweetly.  "Is  if 
Co  be  the— the  'game'  at  lastf" 

"One  word,"  said  the  Mexican  solemnly.  Straight  in  his 
saddle,  he  fixed  them  with  keen  eyes,  keen,  black  eyes  under 
shaggy  brows.  The  syllables  fell  portentously.  His  voice 
deepened  as  far  away  thunder.  "One  word  first,"  growled 
the  awakening  lion.  "You  know  now  that  I  am  Don  Rodrigo 
Galan.  Yes,  I  am  he,  the  capitan  of  guerrillas,  the  rebel,  the 
brigand,  the  hunted  fugitive.  Such  names  of  ignominy  a  true 
patriot  must  bear  because  he  dares  to  defy  his  poor  country's 
oppressors."  Here  Fra  Diavolo  scowled;  he  was  getting  into 
form.  "But  to  His  Majesty  in  our  own  Mexican  capital,  to 
His  Glorious  Resplendent  Most  Christian,  Most  Catholic, 
priest-ridden,  bloodthirsty,  foppish,  imbecile  decree-making 
fool  of  a  canting  majesty — to  this  Austrian  archduke  who 
drove  forth  the  incarnation  of  popular  sovereignty  by  the 
brutal  hand  of  the  foreign  invader — to  him  I  will  yet  make  it 
known  that  the  love  of  liberty,  that  the  loyalty  to  Liberal 
Reforms,  to  the  Constitution,  to  Law  and  Order,  to — uh — 
are  not  yet  dead  in  these  swamps  and  mountains  of  our  Patria. 
And  he  will  know  it  when  he — when  he  hears  my  demand  for 
your  ransom,  Senorita  Marquesa.  He  will  know  it,  too,  when 
he  learns  that  Captain  Maurel — a  Frenchman,  senorita,  not 
a  Mexican — now  lies  stark  in  death  in  the  brush  near  Tam- 
pico,  where  he  came  to  take  and  to  hang  the  steadfast  patriot, 
Rodrigo  Galdn.  But  his  Tender-Hearted  Majesty  will  grieve 
less  for  that  than  for  the  loss  of  you,  Senorita — Jacqueline. 
For  is  it  not  known  that  you,  the  first  lady  of  honor  to  the 
Empress,  that  you  are  also  His  Majesty's " 

"My  faith,"  said  Jacqueline,  "he  speaks  Spanish 
well!" 

Thus  she  stopped  the  insult.  Also  she  stopped  an  unforeseen 
champion  at  her  side.  Driscoll,  with  pistol  half  drawn,  was 
willing  to  be  checked.  A  shot  just  then,  placed  as  they  were, 


The  Brigand  Chief  87 

would  mean  a  bad  ending  to  the  game.  That  he  knew.  So 
he  was  thankful  for  Jacqueline's  hand  on  his  wrist. 

Forked  eloquence  was  silenced  by  now.  Yet  the  patriot 
had  been  in  earnest,  under  the  spell  of  his  own  ardor.  Don 
Anastasio,  with  head  bowed,  had  listened  in  sullen  sympathy. 
But  both  Mexicans  started  as  though  stung  at  Jacqueline's 
applauding  comment.  Don  Rodrigo  purpled  with  rage.  She 
only  looked  back  at  him,  so  provokingly  demure,  that  some- 
thing besides  the  ransom  got  into  his  veins.  He  wet  his  lips, 
baring  the  unpleasant  gleam  of  teeth. 

"Come!"  he  said  thickly.  "You  and  your  maid  go  with 
me." 

Driscoll's  jaw  dropped.  "Diablos,"  he  exclaimed,  bewil- 
dered, "you  don't  mean Look,  Don  Roddy,  you're  crazy! 

Such  things " 

"Come!" 

"But  I  tell  you  it's  foolish.  Such  things  do  not  happen, 
unless  in  melodrama." 

For  reply  the  guerrilla  chief  wheeled  his  charger  and  caught 
the  bridles  of  the  two  horses  that  the  girls  rode.  He  pulled, 
so  as  to  leave  exposed  the  troublesome  American  behind 
them. 

"Grands  dieux,"  exclaimed  Jacqueline,  "have  the  men  in 
this  country  nothing  to  do  except  catch  my  bridle!  But  really, 
sir,  this  situation  is  forced.  It  is  not  artistic.  As — as  Monsieur 
the  Chevalier  says,  it's  quite  impossible." 

She  looked  around  for  Monsieur  the  Chevalier  to  make  it  so, 
but  to  her  dismay,  to  her  disgust,  he  had  taken  to  his  heels. 
He  was  running  away,  as  fast  as  he  could  go.  Then  her  horse 
reared,  for  musket  firing  had  suddenly,  mysteriously  begun  on 
all  sides  of  her.  Many  fierce  pairs  of  eyes  were  bobbing  up 
from  behind  the  boulders  on  the  right  of  the  trail;  yellow- 
brown  faces,  like  a  many-headed  Hydra  coiled  in  the  cacti. 
They  were  shooting,  not  at  her,  but  at  the  fleeing  American. 


88  The  Missourian 

She  felt  an  object  in  her  hand,  which  Driscoll  had  thrust 
there,  and  she  remembered  that  he  had  whispered  something, 
though  she  had  forgotten  what. 

Her  captor  was  straining  at  the  bridle.  In  his  frenzy  he 
leaned  over,  to  lift  her  from  the  saddle,  and  then  she  struck 
him  across  the  face  with  her  whip.  And  then,  with  what  the 
American  had  put  in  her  other  hand,  she  struck  again.  The 
weapon  was  Driscoll's  short  hunting  knife.  The  blade  grazed 
Rodrigo's  shoulder.  He  loosed  his  hold,  and  before  he  could 
prevent,  both  she  and  Berthe  were  in  the  shack  under  the  cliff. 
The  maid  sank  to  the  floor.  The  mistress  stood  in  the  door- 
way. There  was  a  glint  in  the  gray  eyes  not  lovable  in  man 
or  woman,  but  in  her  it  was  superb. 

Fifty  feet  back  up  the  trail  she  saw  Driscoll  scaling  the  cliff. 
That  demon  yelling,  which  is  the  first  spasm  of  Mexican  war- 
fare, had  not  ceased,  and  each  demon  was  shooting  as  fast  as 
he  could  reload.  She  saw  the  white  dust  spurt  out  from  the 
bullet  peppered  rock.  But  either  the  sun  slanting  down  from 
the  mountain  line  was  in  their  eyes,  or  they  were  disconcerted 
at  the  American's  change  in  their  plans;  at  any  rate  their 
laboriously  ascending  target  did  not  drop.  Up  he  climbed. 
Jacqueline  wondered  why  he  still  clung  to  the  jacket  over  his 
arm,  as  people  will  cling  to  absurd  things  in  time  of  panic. 

"To  go  through  that  peril,  and  yet  a  coward!"  she  mur- 
mured. "It's  a  waste " 

The  runaway  gained  the  top  of  the  embankment,  and  fell 
behind  a  rock.  And  now  a  half  dozen  of  the  little  demons 
were  coming  across  the  trail  to  the  shack — to  take  her. 

"Oh,  the  frisson,  the  ecstasy!"  she  cried.  There  was  a  cer- 
tain poignant  sense  of  enjoyment  in  it. 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE  COSSACKS  AND  THEIR  TIGER  COLONEL 

"Ah,  Captain,  here  goes  for  a  fine-drawn  bead; 
There's  music  around  when  my  barrel's  in  tune." 

— Song  of  the  Fallen  Dragoon. 

DIN  DRISCOLL  tumbled  himself  over  among  the  rocks. 
"There,  I'm  fixed,"  he  grunted,  as  he  squatted  down  behind 
his  earthworks.  "Plenty  of  material  here" — he  meant  the 
cartridges  which  he  poured  from  his  coat  pockets  into  his  hat — 
"and  plenty  out  there  too" — indicating  the  Hydra  heads — 
"and  my  pipe — I'll  have  a  nice  time."  He  got  to  work  busily. 

In  the  door  of  the  shack  Jacqueline  saw  the  campaign  for 
her  possession  begin.  Don  Rodrigo  had  fled  to  the  corner  of 
the  shack,  taking  his  horse  with  him.  The  hut  of  bamboo 
and  thatch  was  no  protection  against  Driscoll's  fire,  but  the 
two  girls,  though  inside  the  hut,  were  between  and  afforded  a 
better  screen.  Jacqueline  did  not,  however,  hold  that  against 
her  Fra  Diavolo.  To  save  himself  behind  a  woman  was  quite 
in  keeping  with  his  sinister  role.  And  she,  as  an  artist,  could 
not  reproach  him,  and  as  a  woman  she  did  not  care.  But  the 
American's  running  away — now  that  was  out  of  character,  and 
it  disappointed  her. 

She  heard  Rodrigo  bellowing  forth  an  order,  and  she  saw 
five  or  six  guerrillas  rise  out  of  the  cacti  and  spring  toward  her. 
But  the  constant  shadow  of  self-introspection  haunted  her 
even  then.  In  her  despair,  and  worse,  in  her  disgust,  feeling 
already  those  filthy  hands  upon  her,  she  yet  appraised  this 
jewel  among  ecstatic  shudders,  and  she  knew  in  her  heart  that 
she  would  not  have  had  it  otherwise. 

89 


oo  The  Missourian 

"Oh,  am  I  ever  to  live!"  she  moaned  in  startled  wonderment 
at  herself.  "Always  a  spectator,  always,  even  of  myself! — 
God,  dost  thou  know?  It  is  a  robbery  of  living!"  And  the 
vagabonds  were  twenty  paces  away! 

Something  hurt  her  hand,  she  opened  her  clenched  palm; 
it  was  the  horn  handle  of  Driscoll's  knife.  Had  she  really 
thought  to  defend  herself  with  that  inadequate  thing  ?  "  Poof! " 
She  tossed  it  from  her,  vexed  at  her  own  unconscious  heroics. 
Then  two  dark  arms  reached  out,  nearer  and  nearer,  and  ten 
hooked  ringers  blurred  her  vision.  But  the  arms  shot  upward, 
the  fingers  stiffened,  and  a  body  splashed  across  the  doorway 
at  her  feet  with  the  sound  of  a  board  dropped  on  water. 

"Ai,  poor  man!" 

She  was  on  her  knees,  bending  over  him.  But  a  second  of 
the  vermin  lurched  against  her,  and  he  too  lay  still.  A  pistol 
report  from  the  cliff  was  simultaneous  with  each  man's  fall. 
Both  were  dead.  A  third  sank  in  the  trail  with  a  shattered 
hip,  and  another  behind  knew  the  agony  of  a  broken  leg.  The 
marksman's  mercy  was  evidently  tempered  according  to  dis- 
tance. For,  having  the  matter  now  under  control,  he  non- 
chalantly cracked  only  shin  bones.  Fra  Diavolo  from  his 
shelter  roared  commands  and  curses,  but  not  another  imp  would 
show  himself.  Crouched  jealously,  they  chose  rather  to  besiege 
their  lone  enemy  on  the  cliff. 

u  Must  have  howitzers,"  muttered  Driscoll.  The  soft  lead, 
bigger  than  marbles,  went  "Splut!  Splut!"  against  the  rock  on 
all  sides  of  him,  flattening  with  the  windy  puff  of  mud  on  a 
wall.  But  he  was  well  intrenched,  and  as  the  guerrillas  were 
also,  he  lighted  his  pipe  and  smoked  reflectively.  But  after 
awhile  he  perceived  a  slight  movement,  supplemented  by  a 
carabine.  One  of  the  besiegers  was  working  from  boulder  to 
boulder,  parallel  with  the  trail.  He  did  it  with  infinite  craft. 
At  first  the  fellow  crawled;  then,  when  out  of  pistol  range,  he 
got  to  his  feet  and  ran.  Still  running,  he  crossed  the  trail  at 


The  Cossacks  and  Their  Tiger  Colonel        QI 

a  safe  distance  beyond  the  hut,  and  began  working  back  again, 
this  time  along  the  cliff,  and  toward  Driscoll.  When  about  a 
hundred  yards  away,  he  disappeared;  which  is  to  say,  he 
lowered  himself  into  a  little  ravine  that  thousands  of  rainy 
seasons  had  worn  through  from  the  foothills.  But  almost  at 
once  his  head  and  shoulders  rose  from  the  nearer  bank,  and 
Driscoll  promptly  fired.  The  shot  fell  short.  A  pistol  would 
not  carry  so  far;  which  was  a  tremendously  important  little 
fact,  since  the  other  fellow  was  aiming  a  rifle.  The  bullet 
from  that  rifle  neatly  clipped  a  prickly  pear  over  DriscolFs 
head.  The  strategist  certainly  knew  his  business.  There 
was  a  familiar  shimmer  of  silver  about  his  high  peaked  hat. 
Yes  surely,  he  was  Don  Tiburcio,  the  loyal  Imperialist  of  the 
baleful  eye.  No  doubt  the  malignant  twinkle  gleamed  in  that 
eye  now,  even  as  the  blackmailer  bit  a  cartridge  for  the  next 
shot.  A  victim  who  had  only  pistols,  and  at  rifle  range,  and 
with  not  a  pebble  for  shelter  from  the  flank  bombardment — it 
was  assuredly  a  situation  to  tickle  Don  Tiburcio. 

Now  Driscoll's  point  of  view  was  less  amusing.  To  change 
his  position,  he  must  expose  himself  to  a  fusilade  from  across 
the  way.  And  if  he  tried  to  rush  his  friend  of  the  gully,  the 
brigands  meantime  would  carry  off  the  two  girls.  A  gentle- 
man's part,  therefore,  was  to  stay  where  he  was  and  be  made  a 
target  of.  But  he  varied  it  a  little.  At  Don  Tiburcio's  second 
shot,  he  lunged  partly  to  his  feet  and  fell  forward  as  though 
mortally  wounded.  He  lay  quite  still,  and  soon  Don  Tiburcio 
came  creeping  toward  him.  Don  Tiburcio  was  thinking  of 
his  lost  toll-moneys  that  should  be  on  the  corpse.  Driscoll 
waited,  his  nerves  alert,  his  pistols  ready.  But  just  beyond 
range,  the  blackmailer  paused. 

"Go  for  the  women,  you  idiots,"  he  yelled.  "The  Gringo's 
dead." 

The  idiots  verified  the  title  straightway,  for  up  they  popped 
from  behind  their  boulders  and  started  for  the  shack. 


p2  The  Missourian 

"  'Possuming's  no  use,"  Driscoll  muttered,  then  fired.  The 
guerrillas  got  back  to  cover  quickly  enough,  and  so  did  Don 
Tiburcio,  grinning  over  his  stratagem.  In  his  arroyo  again, 
he  proposed  to  make  the  Gringo  as  a  sieve.  Each  bullet 
from  his  carabine  twanged  lower  and  lower.  "Ouch!" 
ejaculated  Driscoll.  One  had  furrowed  his  leg,  and  it  hurt. 
He  looked  anxiously,  to  see  if  the  Mexican  were  lowering  his 
aim  yet  more.  An  inch  meant  such  a  great  deal  just  then. 
But  a  tremendous  surprise  met  him.  For  Don  Tiburcio  had 
changed  his  mind.  The  rascal  was  firing  in  another  direction 
entirely,  firing  rapturously,  firing  at  his  very  allies,  at  the  little 
imps  themselves  among  the  boulders  and  nettles.  And 
the  little  imps  were  positively  leaping  up  to  be  shot.  They 
ran  frantically,  but  straight  toward  the  traitor,  and  on  past 
him  up  the  trail.  The  Storm  Centre  could  not  shoot  lunatics 
any  more  than  he  could  babies.  He  only  stared  at  them  open 
mouthed. 

"Los  Cosacos! — El  Tigre!  Los  Cosacos!"  they  yelled, 
scrambling  out  upon  the  road,  bleeding,  falling,  praying,  and 
kissing  whatever  greasy  amulet  or  virgin's  picture  they  owned. 

Then  there  beat  into  Driscoll's  ears  the  furious  clatter  of 
hoofs.  It  deafened  him,  the  familiar,  glorious  din  of  it.  The 
blood  raged  in  his  veins  like  fiery  needle  points.  To  see  them 
— the  cavalry,  the  cavalry!  Then  they  were  gone — a  flashing 
streak  of  centaurs,  a  streamer  of  red  in  a  blur  of  dust,  maniac 
oaths,  and  pistol  shots,  and  sweeping  sabres.  Hacked  bodies 
were  sucked  beneath  the  swarm  as  saplings  under  an  avalanche. 
Driscoll  sprang  up  and  gazed.  Through  eddying  swirls  he 
still  could  see  red  sleeved  arms  reach  out,  and  lightning  rays 
of  steel,  and  half-naked  fleeting  creatures  go  down,  and  never 
a  jot  of  the  curse's  speed  abate. 

"Lordy,  but  Old  Joe  should  'a  seen  it!"  he  fairly  shouted. 
He  was  thinking  of  Shelby,  of  the  Old  Brigade  back  in  Mis- 
souri; daredevils,  every  one  of  them. 


The  Cossacks  and  Their  Tiger  Colonel        93 

Don  Tiburcio  had  sighted  the  vengeful  horde  from  afar, 
and  had  recognized  them,  since  he  was,  in  fact,  one  of  their 
scouts.  They  were  the  Contra  Guerrillas,  the  Cossacks,  the 
scourge  wielded  by  the  French  Intervention  and  the  Empire. 
And  they  were  Don  Tiburcio's  cue  to  loyalty.  For  seeing  them, 
he  began  firing  on  his  late  friends,  the  brigands.  Yet  he  spared 
their  Capitan.  At  the  first  alarm  Fra  Diavolo  had  vaulted 
astride  his  black  horse,  and  Tiburcio  darting  out,  had  caught 
his  bridle,  and  turned  him  into  the  dry  bed  of  the  arroyo. 
Others  of  the  fugitives  tried  to  escape  by  this  same  route,  but 
Tiburcio  fought  them  off  with  clubbed  rifle,  and  in  such 
occupation  was  observed  by  him  who  led  the  Cossacks,  who 
was  a  terrible  old  man,  and  a  horseman  to  give  the  eye  joy. 
At  the  gully  he  swerved  to  one  side,  and  let  the  hurricane  pass 
on  by. 

''Sacred  name  of  thunder,"  he  cursed  roundly,  "a  minute 
later  and " 

"Si,  mi  coronel,"  the  faithful  Tiburcio  acknowledged  grate- 
fully, "Your  Excellency  came  just  in  time." 

The  colonel  of  Contra  Guerrillas  frowned  a  grim  approval 
for  his  scout's  handiwork  of  battered  skulls.  He  was  a  man 
of  frosted  visage,  a  grisly  Woden.  The  hard  features  were 
more  stern  for  being  ruggedly  venerable.  His  beard  was  wiry, 
hoary  gray,  through  whose  billowy  depth  a  long  black  cigar 
struck  from  clenched  teeth.  If  eyes  are  windows  of  the  soul, 
his  were  narrow,  menacing  slits,  loopholes  spiked  by  bristling 
brows.  Two  deep  creases  between  the  eyes  furrowed  their 
way  up  and  were  lost  under  an  enormously  wide  sombrero. 
This  sombrero  was  low  crowned,  like  those  worn  farther  to 
the  south,  and  ornately  flowered  in  silver.  His  chest  was 
crossed  with  braid,  cords  of  gold  hung  from  the  right  shoulder 
to  the  collar,  and  the  sleeves  were  as  glorious  as  a  bugler's. 
His  brick-red  jacket  fell  open  from  the  neck,  exposing  the 
whitest  of  linen.  His  boots  were  yellow,  his  spurs  big  Mexican 


94  The  Missourian 

discs.  Altogether  the  blend  in  him  of  the  precise  military 
and  the  easy  ranchero  was  curiously  picturesque.  But  Colonel 
Dupin,  the  Tiger  of  the  Tropics,  was  a  curious  and  picturesque 
man.  His  medals  were  more  than  he  could  wear,  and  each 
was  for  splendid  daring.  But  on  a  time  they  had  been  stripped 
from  him.  It  happened  in  China.  He  had  made  a  gallant 
assault  on  the  Imperial  Palace,  but  he  had  also  satiated  his 
barbarian  soul  in  carnage  and  loaded  his  shoulders  with  buc- 
caneering loot.  And  though  he  wondered  at  his  own  modera- 
tion, a  court  martial  followed.  However,  Louis  Napoleon 
gave  him  back  his  medals,  and  sent  him  to  Mexico  to  stamp 
out  savagery  by  counter  savagery. 

"There  were  two  accomplices  in  this  business,"  the  Tiger 
was  saying,  "one  a  trader,  Murguia " 

"Killed  him  my  very  first  shot,"  lied  Tiburcio.  He  would 
save  his  golden  goose  of  the  golden  eggs. 

"And  the  other,  an  American?" 

"Got  away  with  the  others,  senor."  Again  Tiburcio's 
reason  was  obvious.  The  American,  if  taken,  might  tell 
things. 

"And  " — Dupin  gripped  his  cigar  hungrily — "and  Rodrigo  ?  " 

For  answer  the  scout  waved  a  hand  vaguely  up  the  trail. 

"None  went  that  way?"  and  the  Colonel  jerked  his  head 
toward  the  ravine. 

"No,  none.     Your  Mercy  saw  me  driving  them  back." 

"Quick,  then,  on  your  horse!     We're  losing  time." 

Don  Tiburcio  was  reluctant.  He  had  no  yet  recovered 
his  money  from  the  American.  "But  the  women,  mi  coronel? 
They  are  there,  in  that  shack.  Hadn't  I  better  stay ?" 

"Jacqueline,  you  mean?  Of  course  the  little  minx  is  in 
trouble,  the  second  she  touches  land.  But  you  come  with  me. 
She  shall  have  another  protector." 

Tiburcio  knew  the  Cossack  chief.  He  obeyed,  and  both 
men  galloped  away  after  the  chase. 


"COLONEL  DUPIN" 

The  Tiger  of  the  Tropics      ...     the  chief  of  Contra  Guerrillas ' 


The  Cossacks  and  Their  Tiger  Colonel        95 

They  had  not  gone  far  when  they  passed  Michel  Ney  swiftly 
returning.  He  was  the  protector  Dupin  had  in  mind.  He 
had  seen  Jacqueline  in  the  doorway  of  the  hut  as  he  stormed 
past  with  the  Contra  Guerrillas,  but  he  had  been  too  enthusiastic 
to  stop  just  then.  He  was  a  Chasseur  d'Afrique,  and  to  be  a 
Chasseur  d'Afrique  was  to  ride  in  a  halo  of  mighty  sabre 
sweeps.  And  Michel  had  fought  Arabs  too — but  the  good 
simplicity  of  his  countenance  was  woefully  ruffled  as  he 
turned  back  from  that  charge  of  the  Cossacks. 

"Michel!"  cried  Jacqueline,  stepping  over  the  forms  of 
men  before  the  hut,  and  forgetting  them.  The  natty  youth 
was  torn,  rumpled,  grimy.  The  sky-blue  of  his  uniform  was 
gray  with  dust.  But  to  see  him  at  all  proved  that  he  had 
escaped  Fra  Diavolo's  web  in  Tampico.  And  the  relief! 
It  made  her  almost  gay.  "Ah,  Michel — le  beau  sabreur! — 
and  did  you  enjoy  it,  mon  ami?" 

He  alighted  at  her  feet,  and  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

"Monsieur,"  she  demanded  quick  as  thought,  "my  trunk?" 

"Mon  Dieu,  mademoiselle,  I  did  well  to  bring  myself." 

"You  should  have  brought  my  trunk,  sir,  first  of  all.  Deign 
to  look  at  this  frock!  No,  no,  don't,  please  don't.  But  tell 
me  everything.  What  could  have  happened  to  you  last  night  ? 
Why  did  you  not  meet  me  this  morning?" 

His  story  was  brief.  Of  his  contemplated  strategy  at  Tam- 
pico, there  had  been  a  most  lugubrious  botching.  The  night 
before,  when  he  started  to  the  fort  for  aid,  Fra  Diavolo's  little 
Mexicans  had  waylaid  him,  bound  him,  and  dragged  him 
back  to  the  cafe,  where  Jacqueline  that  very  moment  reposed 
in  slumber.  And  there,  in  a  back  room  without  a  window, 
he  had  gritted  his  teeth  until  morning.  As  for  the  sailors, 
who  were  to  return  to  the  ship  for  her  trunk;  well,  more  little 
Mexicans  had  fired  on  them  from  the  river  bank.  The  small 
boat,  riddled  with  shot,  had  sunk,  and  the  sailors,  splashing 
frantically  to  keep  off  the  sharks,  had  gained  the  shore  opposite. 


p6  The  Missourian 

But  they  could  neither  get  word  to  the  ship,  nor  cross  back  to 
Tampico. 

"Yet,"  demanded  Jacqueline,  "how  could  you  know  all 
this,  there  in  your  prison  room  ?  " 

"Am  I  saying  I  did,  name  of  a  name?  Well,  those  poor 
sailors  wandered  about  all  night  in  the  swamps  across  the 
river,  and  this  morning  they  ran  into  Colonel  Dupin  and  his 
Contras,  and  the  colonel  was  frothing  mad.  He  had  only 
just  stumbled  on  the  bodies  of  Captain  Maurel  and  some  of 
his  men,  who  had  been  ambushed  and  murdered.  Poor 
Maurel  was  dangling  from  a  tree  among  the  vultures.  Others 
were  mutilated.  Some  had  even  been  tortured.  And  all 
were  stripped,  and  rotting  naked.  Mon  Dieu,  mon  dieu,  but 
it's  an  inferno,  this  country!" 

"Yes,  yes,  but  how  did  they  find  you?" 

"Colonel  Dupin  simply  brought  the  sailors  back  to  Tampico 
and  searched  that  cafe",  and  got  me  out.  The  proprietor 
wasn't  thought  to  be  any  too  good  an  Imperialist,  anyway. 
They  shot  him,  and  then  we  came  right  along  here." 

"Very  nice  of  you,  I  am  sure." 

"Not  at  all.  Dupin  isn't  thinking  of  anybody  but  your 
Fra  Diavolo,  who  must  have  killed  Captain  Maurel. — Was  he 
here?" 

"Who?    Don  Rodrigo?" 

"Don  Rodrigo?" 

"Of  course.     He's  the  same  as  Fra  Diavolo." 

"  You  mean  that  bandit,"  cried  Ney,  "that  terrible  Rodrigue  ? 
But  he  is  dead,  don't  you  remember,  Fra  Diavolo  said  so?" 

"Stupid!    Fra  Diavolo  is  Don  Rodrigo  himself." 

"Not  dead  then?  And  I'll  meet  him  yet!  But,"  and  his 
sudden  hope  as  suddenly  collapsed,  "Dupin  will  get  him  first." 

"I  think  not,  because  Rodrigo  did  not  take  the  trail." 

"  Then  which  way  did  he  go  ?  Quick,  please,  mademoiselle, 
which  way?" 


The  Cossacks  and  Their  Tiger  Colonel        97 

"He  turned  off  into  that  arroyo." 

"Oh,  what  chance,  what  luck!"  But  the  boy  stopped  with 
his  foot  in  the  stirrup.  "No,  mademoiselle,  I  can't  leave 
you!" 

"Oh  yes  you  can.  I  daresay  there's  another  champion 
about."  She  glanced  up  at  the  cliff .  "  And  besides,  all  danger 
is  past.  The  donkey  caravan  is  still  here,  and  for  company, 
I  have  Berthe,  of  course." 

' '  Really,  mademoiselle  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  Michel,  really." 

"Good,  I'm  off!  But  we  will  meet  you  at — Dupin  just 
told  me — at  the  next  village  on  this  same  trail.  Now  I'm  off!" 
He  was  indeed.  "I  say,  mademoiselle,"  he  called  back,  "I'm 
glad  we  left  the  ship,  aren't  you?" 

Jacqueline  turned  hastily  her  gaze  from  the  cliff.  He 
startled  her,  expressing  her  own  secret  thought. 

Chasseur  and  steed  vanished  in  the  ravine,  and  she  smiled. 
"The  God  of  pleasant  fools  go  with  him,"  she  murmured. 


CHAPTER  XII 
PASTIME  PASSING  EXCELLENT 

"  H  y  a  des  offenses  qui  indignent  les  femmes  sans  les  deplaire." 

— Entile  Augier. 

LIKE  another  Black  Douglas,  Din  Driscoll  rose  among 
the  crags,  the  dark  tufts  curling  stubbornly  on  his  bared  head. 
He  looked  a  sinewy,  toughened  Ajax.  But  he  only  spoiled 
it.  For,  raising  his  arms,  he  stretched  himself,  stretched 
long  and  luxuriously.  His  very  animal  revelling  in  the  huge 
elongation  of  cramped  limbs  was  exasperating.  Next  he 
clapped  the  slouch  on  his  head,  and  clambered  down. 

Jacqueline  might  have  been  surprised  to  see  him.  Her 
brows  lifted.  "Not  killed?"  she  exclaimed.  "But  no,  of 
course  not.  You  gave  yourself  air,  you  ran  away." 

Driscoll  made  no  answer.  He  was  thinking  of  what  to  do 
next.  She  knew  that  he  had  run  because  of  her,  and  she 
was  piqued  because  he  would  not  admit  it.  "So,"  she  went 
on  tauntingly,  "monsieur  counts  his  enemy  by  numbers  then?" 

"Didn't  count  them  at  all,"  he  murmured  absently. 

"But,"  and  she  tapped  her  foot,  "a  Frenchman,  he  would 
have  done  it — not  that  way." 

She  was  talking  in  English,  and  the  quaintness  of  it  began 
to  create  in  him  a  desire  for  more.  "Done  what,  miss?" 
he  asked. 

"He  would  not  have  run — a  French-man." 

"Prob'bly  not,  'less  he  was  pretty  quick  about  it." 

She  looked  up  angrily.  Of  course  he  must  know  that  he 
had  been  splendid,  up  there  behind  the  rocks.  And  now  to 

98 


Pastime  Passing  Excellent  99 

be  unconscious  of  it!  But  that  was  only  a  pose,  she  decided. 
Yet  what  made  him  so  stupidly  commonplace,  and  so  dense? 
She  hated  to  be  robbed  of  her  enthusiasm  for  an  artistic  bric-a- 
brac  of  emotion;  and  here  he  was,  like  some  sordid  mechanic 
who  would  not  talk  shop  with  a  girl. 

"I  wager  one  thing,"  she  fretted,  "and  it  is  that  when  you 
bring  men  down  to  earth  you  have  not  even  at  all — how  do 
you  say? — the  martial  rage  in  your  eyes?" 

"W'y,  uh,  not's  I  know  of.    It  might  spoil  good  shooting." 

"And  your  pipe" — her  lip  curled  and  smiled  at  the  same 
time — "the  pipe  does  not,  neither?" 

His  mouth  twitched  at  the  corners.  "N-o,"  he  decided 
soberly,  "not  in  close  range." 

She  gave  him  up,  he  had  no  pose.  Still,  she  was  out  of 
patience  with  him.  "Helas!  monsieur,  all  may  see  you  are 
Ameri-can.  But  there,  you  have  not  to  feel  sorry.  I  forgive 
you,  yes,  because — it  wasn't  dull." 

"Hadn't  we  better  be " 

"Now  what,"  she  persisted,  "kept  you  so  long  up  there, 
for  example?" 

Driscoll  reddened.  He  had  lingered  behind  the  screen  of 
rock  to  bandage  his  furrowed  leg.  "S'pose  you  don't  ask," 
he  said  abruptly,  "there's  plenty  other  things  to  be  doing." 

He  turned  and  invited  the  little  Breton  maid  to  come  from 
the  shack.  She  was  white,  and  trembled  a  little  yet.  "I 
knew,  I  knew  you  would  not  leave  us,  monsieur,"  she 
was  trying  to  tell  him.  "But  if  you  had — oh,  what  would 
madame " 

"Now  then,"  the  practical  American  interrupted,  "where's 
Murgie  ?  " 

Jacqueline  pointed  with  the  toe  of  her  slipper.  There  were 
prostrate  bodies  around  them,  with  teeth  bared,  insolent, 
silent,  horrible.  One  couldn't  be  sorry  they  were  dead,  but 
one  didn't  like  to  see  them.  Jacqueline's  boot  pointed  to  a 


ioo  The  Missourian 

man  lying  on  his  face.  A  silk  hat  was  near  by  in  the  dust. 
A  rusty  black  wig  was  loosened  from  his  head.  The  girl 
invoked  him  solemnly.  "Arise,  Ancient  Black  Crow,  and 
live  another  thousand  years." 

Driscoll  lifted  the  shrunken  bundle  of  a  man,  held  him  at 
arm's  length,  looked  him  over,  and  stood  him  on  his  feet. 
The  withered  face  was  more  than  ever  like  a  death's  head,  and 
the  eyes  were  glassy,  senseless.  But  as  to  hurt  or  scratch, 
there  was  none.  The  beady  orbs  started  slowly  in  their  sockets, 
rolling  from  side  to  side.  The  lips  opened,  and  formed 
words.  "Killed?  yes,  I  am  killed.  But  I  want — my  cotton, 
my  burros,  my  peons — I  want  them.  I  am  dead,  give  them  to 
me." 

"You're  alive,  you  old  maverick." 

The  gaze  focused  slowly  on  Driscoll,  and  slowly  wakened  to 
a  crafty  leer.  Believe  this  Gringo? — not  he! 

With  an  arm  behind  his  shoulders  Driscoll  forced  him  down 
the  trail  to  his  caravan.  Most  of  the  animals  were  lying  downs 
dozing  under  then-  packs.  Murguia's  eyes  grew  watery  when 
he  saw  them,  but  he  was  still  dazed  and  his  delusion  was 
obstinate.  The  leer  shot  exultant  gleams.  "A  rich  man 
can  enter  heaven,"  he  chuckled  with  unholy  glee. 

"Oh  wake  up,  and  give  me  two  donkeys  for  the  girls. 
Their  horses  got  hit,  you  know." 

Then  the  stunned  old  miser  began  to  perceive  that  he  was  not 
in  heaven.  His  tyrant's  voice!  "You  get  my  horses  killed," 
he  whined,  "and  now  you  take  my  burros." 

Driscoll  said  no  more,  but  picked  out  two  beasts  and 
bound  some  cushioned  sacking  on  their  backs  for  saddles. 
Then  with  a  brisk  hearty  word,  he  swept  Berthe  up  on  the 
first  one. 

"Next,"  he  said,  turning  to  Jacqueline. 

But  the  marchioness  drew  back.  Next — after  her  maid! 
Jt  nettled  her  that  this  country  boy,  or  anv  other,  could  not 


Pastime  Passing  Excellent  101 

recognize  in  her  that  indefinable  something  which  is  supposed 
to  distinguish  quality. 

"What's  the  matter,  now?"  he  asked.  "Quick,  please, 
I'm  in  a  hurry." 

"It's  too  preposterous.    I'll  not!" 

"You  will,"  he  said  quietly. 

Her  gray  eyes  deepened  to  blue  with  amazement.  She 
stood  stock  still,  haughtily  daring  him.  She  even  lifted  her 
arms  a  little,  leaving  the  girlish  waist  defenseless.  Her  slender 
figure  was  temptation,  the  pretty  ducal  fury  was  only  added 
zest.  Up  among  the  rocks  Driscoll  had  found  himself  whisper- 
ing, "She's  game,  that  little  girl!"  But  at  the  same  time  he 
had  remembered  Rodrigo's  innuendo,  the  linking  of  her 
name  with  Maximilian's.  She  was  so  brave,  and  so  head- 
strong, so  lovably  headstrong,  and  her  beauty  was  so  fresh  and 
soft!  Yet  he  could  not  but  think  of  that  taint  in  what  nature 
had  made  so  pure.  Of  a  sudden  there  was  a  something  wrong, 
something  ugly  and  hideously  wrong  in  life.  And  the  country 
boy,  the  trooper,  the  man  of  blood-letting,  what  you  will,  was 
filled  with  helpless  rage  against  it;  and  next  against  himself, 
because  the  girlish  waist  could  thrill  him  so.  "A  silly  little 
butterfly,"  he  argued  inwardly.  Before,  he  had  been  unaware 
of  his  own  indifference.  But  now  he  angrily  tried  to  summon 
it  back.  He  set  his  mind  on  their  situation,  on  what  it  exacted. 
It  exacted  haste,  simple,  impersonal  haste.  And  keeping  his 
mind  on  just  that,  he  caught  her  up. 

"Oh,  you  boor!"  she  cried,  pushing  at  him. 

His  jaw  hardened.  His  will  was  well  nigh  superhuman, 
for  he  battled  against  two  furious  little  hands,  against  the  dimple 
and  the  patch  so  near  his  lips,  against  the  fragrance  of  her 
hair,  against  the  subtle  warmth  of  his  burden. 

"No,  no!"  she  panted.  "Monsieur,  do  you  hear  me? 
I  am  not  to  be  carried!" 

"Maybe  not,"  said  he,  carrying  her. 


I02  The  Missourian 

A  moment  later  she  discovered  herself  planted  squarely  on 
the  burro. 

"  Bontd  divine ! "  she  gasped.  But  she  took  care  not  to  fall  off. 

He  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Now  whip  'em  up,"  he  commanded. 

The  first  village  beyond,  where  Dupin  had  promised  to 
meet  Jacqueline,  was  a  squatting  group  of  thatched  cones 
in  a  dense  forest  of  cyprus  and  eucalyptus.  Its  denizens  were 
Huasteca  Indians,  living  as  they  had  before  the  Conquest, 
among  themselves  still  talking  their  native  dialect.  The 
name  of  the  hamlet  was  Culebra. 

The  coy  twilight  waned  quickly,  and  the  caravan  was  still 
pushing  on  through  the  thick  darkness  of  the  wood,  when  a 
high  tensioned  yelping  made  the  vast  silence  insignificant, 
ugly.  But  as  the  travelers  filed  into  the  clearing  where  the 
village  was,  the  curs  slunk  away  with  coyote  humility,  their 
yellow  points  of  eyes  glowing  back  on  the  intruders. 

With  a  forager's  direct  method,  Driscoll  roused  the  early 
slumbering  village.  He  would  not  take  alfafa,  he  declined 
rastrojo.  It  was  human  food,  corn,  that  he  bought  for  his 
horse.  He  housed  his  dumb  friend  under  a  human  roof  too. 
After  which  he  prepared  a  habitation  for  the  women.  He 
swept  the  likeliest  hut  clean  of  ashes;  brazier,  and  bits  of  pots 
and  jars.  He  carpeted  the  earth  floor  in  Spanish  moss,  as 
King  Arthur's  knights  once  strewed  their  halls  with  rushes. 
It  was  luxury  for  a  coroneted  lass,  if  one  went  back  a  dozen 
centuries.  There  were  chinks  between  the  sooty  saplings 
that  formed  the  wall,  but  over  these  he  hung  matting,  and  he 
drove  a  stake  for  a  candle. 

Supper  followed.  The  trooper  chose  to  change  Don  Anas- 
tasio  from  host  to  guest,  and  he  exacted  what  he  needed  from 
the  Inditos.  They,  for  their  part,  were  alert  before  his  com- 
mands. None  of  them  had  been  overlooked  in  his  preliminary 


Pastime  Passing  Excellent  103 

largesse  of  copper  tlacos  and  they  made  the  teaming  wilderness 
contribute  to  his  spread.  Kneeling,  with  sleeves  rolled  from 
his  hard  forearms,  he  broiled  a  steak  over  hickory  forks.  The 
torches  of  gum  tree  knots  lighted  his  banquet,  and  the  faces 
of  the  two  girls,  rosy  in  the  blaze  and  mysterious  in  the  shadow, 
were  piquant  inspiration.  Even  the  sharp  features  of  Don 
Anastasio  stirred  him  into  a  phase  of  whimsical  benevolence. 
He  knocked  two  chickens  from  their  perch  in  a  tree  and  baked 
them  in  a  mould  of  clay.  There  was  an  armadilla  too,  which  a 
Culebra  boy  and  the  dogs  had  run  down  during  the  day.  Its 
dark  flesh  was  rich  and  luscious,  and  the  Missourian  fondly 
called  it  'possum.  Crisply  toasted  tortillas,  or  corn  cakes, 
served  for  bread,  and  for  spoons  as  well.  But  to  Driscoll's 
mind  the  real  feast  was  coffee — actual  coffee,  which  he  made 
black,  so  very  good  and  black,  a  riotous  orgie  of  blackness  and 
strength  and  fragrance.  Here  was  a  feast  indeed  for  the  poor 
trooper.  He  thought  of  the  chickory,  of  the  parched  corn,  of 
all  those  pitiful  aggravations  that  Shelby's  Brigade  had  tried 
so  hard  to  imagine  into  coffee  during  the  late  months  of  priva- 
tion along  the  Arkansas  line. 

And  the  Marquise  d'Aumerle?  Learning  to  eat  roasting 
ears,  which  somehow  just  would  leave  a  grain  on  her  cheek 
with  every  bite,  the  dainty  Marquise  thought  how  much  finer 
was  this  than  the  tedious  bumping  ship.  How  much  more 
tempting  than  the  ultra-belabored  viands  on  white  china 
that  had  to  be  latticed  down!  Here  was  angel's  bread  in  the 
wilderness.  And  the  appetite  that  drove  her  to  ask  for  more, 
that  was  the  only  sauce — an  appetite  that  was  a  frisson.  A 
new  sensation,  in  itself! 

And  later,  sleep  too  became  a  passion,  a  passion  new  and 
sweet  in  its  incantation  out  of  the  lost  cravings  of  childhood. 
When  the  nearer  freshness  of  the  woods  filled  her  nostrils, 
there  from  the  liveoak  moss  in  her  night's  abode,  she  smiled 
on  the  grave  young  fellow  who  had  left  her  at  the  door.  And 


I04  The  Missourian 

both  girls  laughing  together  over  the  masculine  notions,  for 
their  comfort,  knew  a  certain  happy  tenderness  in  their  gaiety. 

"Eh,  but  it's  deep,  madame,"  said  one. 

"It's  the  politeness  of  the  heart,"  the  other  explained. 

Outside  Driscoll  spread  his  blanket  across  the  doorway 
where  his  horse  was  sheltered,  and  wrapped  in  his  great  cape- 
coat,  he  stretched  himslf  for  a  smoke.  But  Murguia  came 
with  cigars,  of  the  Huasteca,  gray  and  musty.  Driscoll  ac- 
cepted one,  waving  aside  the  old  man's  apologies.  He  puffed 
and  waited.  Conviviality  in  Don  Anastasio  meant  something. 

"Ah,  amigo,"  the  thin  voice  cracked  in  a  spasm  of  forced 
heartiness,  "ah,  it  was  a  banquet!  Si,  si,  a  banquet!  Only, 
if  there  were  but  a  liqueur,  a  liqueur  to  give  the  after-cigar 
that  last  added  relish,  verdad,  senor?" 

Driscoll  tapped  his  "after-cigar "  till  the  ashes  fell.  "Well ? 
he  asked. 

"Ai  de  mi,  caballero,  but  I  am  heavy  with  regrets.  I  can 
offer  nothing.  My  poor  cognac — no,  not  after  such  a  feast. 
But  whiskey — ah,  whiskey  is  magnifico.  It  is  American." 

He  stopped,  with  a  genial  rubbing  of  his  bony  hands.  But 
his  sad  good-fellowship  was  transparent  enough,  and  in  the 
darkness  his  eyes  were  beads  of  malice.  Driscoll  half  grunted. 
A  long  way  round  for  a  drink,  he  thought.  "Here,"  he  said, 
getting  out  his  flask,  "have  a  pull  at  this." 

Murguia  took  it  greedily.  He  had  seen  the  flask  before. 
The  covering  of  leather  was  battered  and  peeled.  "Perhaps  a 
little — water?"  he  faltered.  Driscoll  nodded,  and  off  the  old 
Mexican  ambled  with  the  flask.  When  he  returned,  he  had 
a  glass,  into  which  he  had  poured  some  of  the  liquor.  The 
canteen  he  handed  back  to  the  trooper,  who  without  a  word 
replaced  it  in  his  pocket.  Murguia  lingered.  He  sipped  his 
toddy  absently. 

"I,  I  wonder  why  the  friends  of  the  senoritas  do  not  come?" 
he  ventured. 


Pastime  Passing  Excellent  105 

"Want  to  get  rid  of  them,  eh,  Murgie?" 

The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "And  why  not? 
You  may  not  believe  me,  senor,  but  should  I  not  feel  easier  if 
they  were — well,  out  of  the  reach  of  Don  Rodrigo?" 

"Out  of Look  here,  where's  the  danger  now?" 

"Ai,  senor,  don't  be  too  sure.  Colonel  Dupin  still  does  not 
come,  and  it  might  be — because  the  guerrillas  have  stopped 
him." 

"Man  alive,  he  had  'em  running!" 

"H'm,  yes,  but  there's  plenty  more.  This  very  village 
breeds  them,  feeds  them,  welcomes  them  home.  Don  Rodrigo 
can  gather  ten  times  what  he  had  to-day.  And  if  he  does,  and 
if,  if  he  is  looking  for  the  senoritas  again " 

Driscoll  shifted  on  his  blanket.  "I  see,"  he  drawled.  "F'r 
instance,  if  the  senoritas  vanish  before  he  gets  here,  he  won't 
blame  you  ?  Oh  no,  you  w.ere  asleep,  you  couldn't  know  that 
I  had  up  and  carried  'em  off.  Anyhow,  you'd  rather  risk 

Rodrigo  than  Colonel  Dupin Yes,  I  see."  He  tucked 

his  saddle  under  his  head,  and  lay  flat,  blinking  at  the  stars. 
"This  trail  go  on  to  Valles?"  he  inquired  drowsily. 

Murguia's  small  eyes  brightened  over  him.  "Yes,"  he  said, 
eagerly. 

"Correct,"  yawned  the  American,  "I've  already  made 
sure." 

"And  if —  But  a  snore  floated  up  from  the  blanket. 

When  Murguia  was  gone,  the  sleeper  awoke.  He  carefully 
poured  out  all  the  remaining  whiskey.  "It  may  be  what  they 
call  'fine  Italian,'"  he  muttered,  with  a  disgusted  shake  of  the 
head,  but  he  neglected  to  throw  the  flask  away  as  well.  Next 
he  saddled  Demijohn  and  two  of  the  pack  horses,  then  lay 
down  and  slept  in  earnest,  as  an  old  campaigner  snatches  at  rest. 

The  night  was  black,  an  hour  before  the  dawn,  when  his  eyes 
opened  wide,  and  he  sat  up,  listening.  He  heard  it  again, 
faint  and  far  away,  a  feeble  "pop-pop!"  Then  there  were 


106  The  Missourian 

more,  a  sudden  pigmy  chorus  of  battle.  He  got  to  his  feet, 
and  ran  to  call  the  two  women. 

"So,"  said  Jacqueline,  appearing  under  the  stars,  "monsieur 
does  not  wish  to  be  relieved  of  us?  He  will  not  wait  for  his 
friends?" 

"  Get  on  these  horses!    Here,  I'll  help  you." 

Soon  they  three  were  riding  through  the  forest,  in  the  trail 
toward  Valles.  Behind  them  the  fairy  popping  swelled  louder, 
yet  louder,  and  the  man  glanced  resentfully  at  his  two  com- 
panions. He  was  missing  the  game. 

Back  in  the  village  of  Culebra  a  demon  uproar  hounded 
Don  Anastasio  out  of  serape  and  slumber.  All  about  him 
were  fleeing  feet.  They  were  shadows,  bounding  like  frightened 
deer  from  the  wood,  across  the  clearing,  and  into  the  wood 
again.  Some  turned  and  fired  as  they  ran.  Screaming  women 
and  children  hurried  out  of  the  jacales,  and  darted  here  and 
there.  Dogs  howled  everywhere.  A  storm  of  crashing  brush 
and  a  wild  troop  of  horsemen,  each  among  them  a  free  lance 
of  butchery,  burst  on  the  village.  A  second  crashing  storm, 
and  they  were  in  the  forest  again.  They  left  quivering  blots 
in  their  wake,  and  a  moaning  gave  a  lower  and  dreadfuller  note 
to  the  wailing  of  women.  Only  the  leader  of  the  pursuers, 
with  a  few  others,  drew  rein. 

"Death  of  an  ox!"  the  French  oath  rang  out,  "We're  in  their 
very  nest.  Quick,  you  loafers,  the  torch,  the  torch!" 

Flames  began  to  crackle,  and  in  the  glare  Murguia  was  seen 
frantically  driving  burros  and  peons  to  safety.  The  leader  of 
the  troop  leaned  over  in  his  saddle  and  had  him  by  the  collar. 

"Who  the  name  of  a  name  are  you?" 

Don  Anastasio  looked  up.  His  captor  was  a  great  bearded 
man.  "Colonel  Dupin!"  he  groaned. 

"Who  are  you?— But  I  should  know.  It's  the  trader,  the 
accomplice  of  Rodrigo.  Sacre"  nom,  tell  me,  where  is  she  ?  We 
can't  find  her  here.  Where  is  she?" 


Pastime  Passing  Excellent  107 

"How  can  I  know,  senor?    She — perhaps  she  is  gone." 

"With  Rodrigo — ha!  But  he'll  have  no  ransom — no,  not 
if  it  breaks  Maximilian's  heart. — Now,  Senor  Trader " 

He  stopped  and  called  to  him  his  nearest  men.  Murguia 
sank  limp. 

"But  he  hasn't  got  her!    Rodrigo  hasn't  got  her!" 

"Who  has  then?" 

"The  other  one,  the  American." 

"Which  way  did  they  go?" 

"If  Your  Mercy  will  not " 

"Shoot  him!"  thundered  the  Tiger. 

"But  if  he  will  tell  us?"  someone  interposed. 

It  was  Don  Tiburcio,  still  the  guardian  angel  of  the  golden 
goose. 

"Bien,"  growled  the  Tiger,  "let  him  live  then  until  we  find 
the  American." 

"Which  way  did  they  go?"  Tiburcio  whispered  in  Murguia's 
ear. 

"To,  to  Valles,"  came  the  reply. 

The  blazing  huts  revealed  a  ghoulish  joy  on  the  miser's  face. 
The  Gringo,  not  he,  would  now  have  to  explain  to  the  Tiger. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

UNREGISTERED  IN  ANY  STUDBOOK 

"  La  belle  chose  que  Taristocratie  quand  on  a  le  chance  d'en  etre." 

— Voltaire. 

THAT  garish  daub  which  was  sopped  up  from  the  burning 
homes  of  men  and  bespattered  over  the  forest's  dark  crest  was 
already  mellowing  under  the  gentler  touch  of  dawri,  when  the 
three  travelers  gained  the  open  country. 

"Poor,  dirty,  little  Inditos,"  Jacqueline  mused  aloud. 
Berthe  struck  her  pony  in  a  tremor  of  fright.  The  American 
was  riding  ahead.  "Fire  and  sword,"  Jacqueline  went  on, 
and  her  voice  lowered  to  intense  scorn,  "they  make  the  final 
tableau,  but — it's  gaudy,  it's  cheap." 

The  trail  had  broadened  into  a  high  road,  and  now  it  wound 
among  the  hills  like  a  soiled  white  ribbon.  Driscoll  turned 
in  his  saddle.  "I  shouldn't  wonder,"  he  observed  in  the  full- 
toned  drawl  that  was  peculiar  to  him,  "but  what  we'd  better 
be  projecting  a  change  of  venue.  This  route  is  too  public,  and 
publicity  around  here  strikes  me  as  sort  of  prejudiced.  S'pose 
we  just  stir  up  an  alibi?" 

A  certain  stately  old  judge  back  in  Missouri  would  have 
smiled  thus  to  hear  the  scion  of  his  house.  But  the  marchion- 
ess, confident  in  her  mastery  of  English,  thought  it  was  the 
veriest  jargon.  What  was  the  boy  trying  to  say?  His  next 
words  grew  fairly  intelligible.  "We  are  now  headed  for  Valles. 
Well,  we've  decided  not  to  go  to  Valles." 

Perhaps  they  had,  but  she  at  least  had  ceased  deciding  any- 

108 


Unregistered  in  Any  Studbook  109 

thing,  since  the  overruling  of  her  veto  in  the  matter  of  prece- 
dence when  one  is  hoisted  upon  a  burro. 

A  narrow  pony  path  crossed  the  road.  "First  trail  to  the 
left,  after  leaving  the  wood,"  Driscoll  said  aloud,  "and  this 
must  be  it."  Campaigner  in  an  unfamiliar  country,  he  had 
informed  himself,  and  it  was  with  confidence  that  he  led  his 
little  party  into  the  bridlepath.  But  he  looked  anxiously  at 
the  forest  behind.  He  did  not  doubt  but  that  Rodrigo,  if  it 
were  he  back  there,  would  terrify  Murguia  into  betraying  their 
destination,  or  their  supposed  destination,  which  was  Valles. 

"Can't  you  hurry  'em  up  a  bit?"  he  called  back. 

"We  do  try,"  protested  Jacqueline,  holding  aloft  a  broken 
switch,"  but  they  only  smile  at  us." 

Driscoll  got  down  and  undid  the  spurs  from  his  boots.  One 
of  the  immense  saw-like  discs  he  adjusted  to  mademoiselle's 
high  heel,  passing  the  strap  twice  around  the  silk-clad  ankle. 
Jacqueline  gazed  down  on  the  short- cropped,  curly  head,  and 
she  saw  that  the  back  of  his  neck  was  suddenly  red.  But  the 
discovery  awakened  nothing  of  the  coquette  in  her.  Quite  the 
contrary,  there  was  something  grateful,  even  gravely  maternal, 
in  the  smile  hovering  on  her  lips  for  the  rough  trooper  who 
took  fright  like  a  girl  over  a  revealed  instep.  Still,  the  interest 
was  not  altogether  maternal  as  she  watched  him  doing  the  same 
service  for  Berthe.  Perhaps  he  was  too  far  away,  or  perhaps 
practice  brought  indifference,  but  at  any  rate,  his  neck  was  no 
longer  tinged  in  that  fiery  way. 

"Now  dig  'em!"  said  he.  "We  want  to  make  that  clump  of 
mesquite  yonder,  now  pretty  quick." 

The  trees  he  pointed  to  were  two  or  three  miles  away,  but 
the  travelers  covered  the  distance  at  an  easy  lope.  Driscoll 
kept  an  eye  on  the  road  they  had  just  left,  and  once  hidden  by 
the  mesquite  he  called  a  halt.  As  he  expected,  a  number  of 
horsemen  appeared  at  a  trot  from  the  direction  of  the  forest. 
They  did  not  pause  at  the  cross  trail,  however,  but  kept  to  the 


no  The  Missourian 

highway  in  the  direction  of  Valles.  The  American  and  the 
two  girls  could  now  safely  continue  their  journey  along  the 
bridlepath. 

"Monsieur,"  Jacqueline  questioned  demurely,  and  in  her 
most  treacherous  way,  "how  much  longer  do  we  yet  follow 
you  up  and  down  mountains?" 

"W'y,  uh — I'm  going  to  the  City  of  Mexico." 

"And  we  others,  we  may  tag  along,  n'est-ce  pas?  But  the 
city  is  far,  far.  And,  to-night?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Driscoll,  "if  you  should  happen  to  know 

of  a  good  hotel "  He  paused  and  gazed  inquiringly  over 

hills  covered  with  banana  and  coffee  to  the  frost  line.  He 
would  not  have  tried  a  frailer  temper  so,  but  to  provoke  hers 
was  incense  to  his  own. 

"You  others,  the  Americans,"  she  said  tentatively,  as  though 
explaining  him  to  herself,  "you  are  so  greedy  of  this  New 
World!  You  won't  give  us  of  it,  no,  not  even  a  poor  little 
answer  of  information.  Alas,  Monseigneur  the  American, 
I  apologize  for  being  on  this  side  the  ocean  at  all — in  a  tattered 
frock." 

Driscoll  looked,  but  he  could  see  nothing  wrong.  She 
seemed  as  crisp  and  dainty  as  ever.  If  there  were  any  disarray, 
it  was  a  fetching  sort,  with  a  certain  rakish  effect. 

"Oh  that's  all  right,"  he  assured  her  heartily,  "you  can 
stay." 

"Really,  and  after  you've  been  writing  us  notes  from  Wash- 
ington to — to  'get  out  ?  We  French  people  do  not  think  that 
was  polite." 

"I  never  wrote  you  any  notes,  and,"  he  added  in  a  lowered 
tone,  "the  devil  take  Washington,  since  Lee  didn't!" 

Jacqueline's  lips  pursed  suddenly  like  a  cherry.  "Oh 
pardon  me,"  she  exclaimed.  "I  did  not  know.  And  so  you 
are  a — a  Confederate?  But,"  and  the  gray  eyes  fastened  upon 
him.  She  rode,  too,  so  that  she  could  see  his  face,  just  ahead 


Unregistered  in  Any  Studbook  in 

of  her,  "but  your  faction,  the — yes,  the  South — she  is  already 
vanquis — no ! — whipped  ?  I — I  heard . ' ' 

He  did  not  reply,  but  his  expression  disturbed  her  unac- 
countably. She  could  almost  note  the  whimsical  daredeviltry 
fade  from  his  face,  as  there  came  instead  the  grimmest  and 
strangest  locking  of  the  jaws.  She  tried  to  imagine  the  French 
beaten  and  her  feelings  then,  but  it  was  difficult,  for  her  country- 
men were  "the  bravest  of  the  world,  the  unconquered."  They 
had  borne  victory  over  four  continents,  into  two  hemispheres. 
But  this  American,  what  must  he  feel?  He  was  thinking,  in 
truth,  of  many  things.  Of  his  leave  taking  with  his  regiment, 
with  those  lusty  young  savages  of  Missourians  whom  perhaps 
he  was  never  to  see  again.  He  was  thinking  of  his  ride  through 
the  South  to  Mobile,  of  the  misery  in  stubborn  heroism,  of  the 
suffering  everywhere,  matching  that  in  the  dreary  fever  camp 
of  the  Old  Brigade.  He  was  thinking  of  all  the  beautiful 
Southland  torn  and  ravaged  and  of  the  lowering  cloud  of  finality. 
Of  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia  so  hard  pressed ;  of  the  doom 
of  Surrender,  a  knell  already  sounded,  perhaps.  Never  had 
Jacqueline  seen  such  bitterness  on  a  human  face.  It  was  a 
man's  bitterness.  And  almost  a  desperado's.  At  least  there 
was  the  making  of  a  desperado  in  the  youth  of  a  moment  Jaefore. 
She  caught  herself  shuddering.  There  was  something  so  like 
a  lurking  death  astride  the  yellow  horse  in  front  of  her. 

But  over  her  also  there  came  a  change,  and  it  grew  as  she 
saw  and.  appreciated  the  man  in  him.  Her  caprices  fell  from 
her,  and  she  was  the  shrewd  woman  of  the  world,  a  deft  creature 
of  courts,  a  cunning  weaver  of  the  delicate  skeins  of  intrigue 
and  politics.  A  glint  of  craft  and  purpose  struck  from  the  gray 
eyes,  as  in  preparation  for  battle.  Her  mischievous  bantering 
had  really  been  fraught  with  design,  and  by  it  she  had  revealed 
to  herself  this  man .  But  the  change  in  her  came  when  he  proved 
an  antagonist,  as  she  now  supposed  him  to  be.  For  in  the 
uncloaking  he  stood  forth  a  Confederate.  His  cause  was 


H2  The  Missourian 

lost.  He  was  in  Mexico.  He  was  on  a  mission,  no  doubt. 
One  question  remained,  what  could  the  mission  be? 

Abrupt  frankness,  with  its  guileful  calculation  to  surprise 
one  into  betrayal,  was  the  subtlest  diplomacy.  "Let  us  see," 
she  mused  aloud,  "you,  your  comrades,  monsieur,  you  have 
no  country  now?  Bien,  that  accounts  for  your  interest  in 
Maximilian  ?  " 

"And  what  is  your  interest,  Miss — Jack-leen?" 
She  staggered  before  the  riposte.  The  "Jack-leen"  was 
innocent  blundering,  she  knew  that.  He  had  heard  Rodrigo 
address  her  so,  and  he  used  it  in  all  respect.  But  there  was 
her  own  question  turned  on  herself.  By  "her  interest"  he  of 
course  meant  the  interest  she  was  showing  in  himself;  he  was 
not  referring  it  to  Maximilian.  And  yet  the  double  meaning 
was  there,  just  the  same.  He  had  struck  back,  that  was 
certain,  but  because  she  could  not  tell  where,  nor  even  whether 
he  had  wounded,  she  was  afraid  to  parry,  much  more  to  venture 
another  thrust.  Those  who  had  sent  the  rustic  evidently 
knew  what  they  were  about.  He  could  shoot  well,  which  was 
exhilarating.  To  redeem  one's  country's  discredited  bills, 
was  quixotic.  She  rose  to  that,  because  she  was  French.  But 
to  fenjce  with  herself — well,  that  was  quality.  Instinctive, 
inbred,  unconscious,  and  unregistered  in  any  studbook  of 
Burke  or  Gotha — but  quality.  And  she  recognized  it,  for 
there  was  deference  in  the  silence  which  her  taffled  diplomacy 
now  counseled. 

i  They  passed  many  natives  plodding  on  to  Valles  with  market 
stuff,  going  at  the  Inditos'  tireless  foxtrot,  now  a  man  in  loin- 
cloth stooped  under  a  great  bundle  of  straw  or  charcoal,  or  a 
family  entire,  including  burro  and  dog.  Of  a  gray-bearded 
patriarch  with  a  chicken  coop  strapped  to  his  back,  Driscoll 
inquired  the  distance  to  an  hacienda  of  the  region  which  had 
the  name  of  Moctezuma.  "  Probablemente,  it  will  be  ten 
leagues  farther  on,  senor,"  the  Huastecan  replied. 


Unregistered  in  Any  Studbook  113 

"We  are  going,"  Driscoll  now  informed  his  companions, 
"to  drop  in  on  Murgie — the  hospitable  old  anaconda." 

They  acquired  a  pineapple  by  purchase,  and  stopped  for 
their  morning  coffee  at  a  hut  among  numberless  orange  trees, 
and  at  another  farther  on  for  their  midday  lunch,  where  they 
learned  that  the  Hacienda  de  Moctezuma  was  only  just  beyond 
the  first  hill,  and  only  just  beyond  the  first  hill  they  learned 
that  they  had  six  leagues  more  to  go.  They  covered  three  of 
these  leagues,  and  were  rewarded  with  the  information  that 
it  was  fully  seven  leagues  yet.  Geography  in  Mexico  was 
clearly  an  elastic  quantity.  But  towards  three  o'clock  a  young 
fellow  on  a  towering  stack  of  fagots  waved  his  arm  over  the 
landscape,  and  said,  "Why,  senor,  you  are  there  now."  Yes, 
it  was  the  hacienda,  but  how  far  was  it  to  the  hacienda  house? 
Oh,  that  was  still  a  few  little  leagues. 

In  the  end,  after  nightfall,  they  rode  into  a  very  wide  valley, 
where  two  broad,  shallow  rivers  joined  and  flowed  on  as  one 
through  the  lowland.  Here,  on  the  brow  of  a  slope,  they 
perceived  the  walls  and  the  church  tower  of  what  seemed  to 
be  a  small  town.  But  after  one  last  inquiry,  they  learned  that 
it  was  the  seat  of  Anastasio  Murguia's  baronial  domain. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  HERALD  OF  THE  FAIR  GOD 

"  Les  grenouilles  se  lassant 
De  lYtat  democratique, 
Par  leur  clameurs  firent  tant 
Que  Jupin  les  soumit  au  pouvoir  monarchique." 

— La  Fontaine. 

A  WIDE  country  road  swept  up  the  slope  of  the  hill,  curved 
in  toward  the  low  outer  wall  of  the  little  town  on  the  brow,  then 
swept  down  again.  The  portico  of  the  hacienda  house  was  set 
in  the  wall  where  the  road  almost  touched,  so  that  the  traveler 
could  alight  at  the  very  threshold  of  the  venerable  place. 
Mounting  the  half-dozen  steps,  Driscoll  crossed  a  vast  porch 
whose  bare  cement  columns  stood  as  sentinels  the  entire  length 
of  the  high,  one-storied  facade,  and  on  the  heavy  double  doors 
he  found  a  knocker.  Visitors  were  infrequent  there,  but  at 
last  a  surprised  barefoot  mozo  answered  the  rapping,  and  in 
turn  brought  a  short  man  of  burly  girth  and  charro  tightness 
of  breeches.  This  chubby  person  bowed  many  times  and 
assured  Their  Mercies  over  and  over  again  that  here  they 
had  their  house.  Driscoll  replied  with  thanks  that  in  that 
case  he  thought  that  he  and  the  other  two  Mercies  would  be 
taking  possession,  for  the  night  at  least. 

The  man  was  Murguia's  administrador,  or  overseer.  He 
too"k  it  for  granted  that  the  French  senor  (in  those  days  Mexico 
called  all  foreigners  French)  and  the  French  senoras  were 
friends  of  his  employer,  and  Driscoll  did  not  undeceive  him. 
The  trooper's  habits  were  those  of  war,  and  war  admitted 
quartering  yourself  on  an  enemy.  He  brought  the  news,  too, 

114 


The  Herald  of  the  Fair  God  115 

that  Murguia  had  come  safely  through  his  last  blockade  run, 
which  alone  insured  him  a  welcome  without  the  fact  that 
ranchero  hospitality  may  be  almost  Arabian  and  akin  to  a 
sacrament. 

Plunging  into  apologies  for  every  conceivable  thing  that 
could  or  might  be  amiss,  Don  Anastasio's  steward  led  them  into 
the  sala,  a  long  front  room,  the  hacendado's  hah1  of  state.  To 
all  appearances  it  had  not  been  so  used  in  many  years,  but  the 
old  furnishing  of  some  former  Spanish  owner  still  told  the  tale 
of  coaches  before  the  colonnade  outside  and  of  hidalgo  guests 
within  the  great  house.  There  was  the  stately  sofa  of  honor 
flanked  by  throne-like  armchairs,  with  high-backed  ones 
next  in  line,  all  once  of  bright  crimson  satin  and  now  frazzled 
and  stained.  The  inevitable  mirror  leaned  from  its  inevitable 
place  over  the  sofa,  but  it  was  cracked  and  the  gilt  of  the  heavy 
frame  had  tarnished  to  red.  At  the  other  end  of  the  sala, 
a  considerable  journey,  there  hung  a  token  of  the  later  and 
Mexican  family  in  possession.  The  token  was  of  course  the 
Virgin  of  Guadelupe  in  her  flame  of  gold,  as  she  had  gaudily 
emblazoned  herself  on  the  blanket,  or  scrape,  of  a  poor  Indian. 
Murguia's  print  was  one  of  thousands  of  copies  of  that  same 
revered  scrape. 

Urging  them  to  be  seated,  clapping  his  hands  for  servants, 
giving  orders,  ever  apologizing,  the  overseer  finally  got  the 
travelers  convinced  that  it  was  their  house  and  that  supper 
would  be  ready  now  directly.  With  a  glance  at  his  two  com- 
panions, Driscoll  inquired  for  the  senoras  of  the  family,  where- 
upon a  sudden  embarrassment  darkened  the  administrador's 
fat  amiable  features. 

"Dofia  Luz,  Your  Mercy  means?  Ai,  caballero,  you  are 
most  kind.  And  you  tell  me  that  her  father  will  come  to- 
morrow, that  he  will — surely  come?" 

"Might  we,"  Jacqueline  interposed,  "pay  our  respects  to 
Senor  Murguia's  daughter?" 


n6  The  Missourian 

The  poor  fellow  begged  Their  Mercies'  indulgence,  but 
Dona  Matilde,  the  senora  aunt  of  Dona  Luz,  lay  sick  in  the 
house.  As  for  Dona  Luz,  yes,  Dona  Luz  had  gone  to  the 
chapel,  as  she  often  did  of  an  evening  lately,  to  pray  for  her 
aunt's  recovery.  Dona  Luz  had  vowed  to  wear  sackcloth 
for  six  months  if  her  dear  patron  saint,  Maria  de  la  Luz, 
would  but  hear  her  petition.  Out  of  compassion,  Jacqueline 
said  no  more. 

Next  morning  Driscoll  was  astir  early.  He  wandered  through 
a  thick-walled  labyrinth  of  corridors  and  patios,  and  came  at 
last  into  a  rankly  luxuriant  tropical  garden,  where  the  soft 
perfume  of  china- tree  blossoms  filled  his  nostrils.  Keeping  on 
he  passed  many  of  the  hacienda  buildings,  a  sugar  mill,  a 
cotton  factory,  warehouses,  stables  with  corrals,  and  entered 
a  tortuous  street  between  adobes,  where  he  found  the  hacienda 
store.  Here  the  administrador  was  watching  the  clerks  who 
sold  and  the  peons  who  bought.  The  latter  were  mostly 
women,  barefooted  and  scantily  clothed.  Their  main  want 
was  corn,  weevil-eaten  corn,  which  they  carried  away  in  their 
aprons.  They  made  tortillas  of  it  for  their  men  laboring  in 
the  hacienda  fields,  or  on  the  hacienda  coffee  hills.  The 
store  was  a  curious  epitome  of  thrift  and  improvidence.  One 
wench  grumbled  boldly  of  short  measure.  She  dared,  because 
she  was  comely  and  buxom,  and  her  chemise  fell  low  on  her 
full,  olive  breast.  She  counted  her  purchase  of  frijoles  to  the 
last  grain,  using  her  fingers,  and  glaring  at  the  clerk  half 
coaxingly,  half  resentfully.  But  an  intensely  scarlet  percale 
caught  her  barbarian  eye,  and  she  took  enough  of  it  for  a  skirt. 
A  dozen  cigarettes  followed,  and  by  so  much  she  increased 
her  man's  debt  to  the  hacienda. 

A  shrunken  and  ancient  laborer  was  expostulating  earnestly 
with  much  gesturing  of  skeleton  arms,  while  the  administrador 
listened  as  one  habituated  and  bored.  The  feeble  peon  pro- 
tested that  he  could  not  work  that  day.  He  parted  the  yellow 


The  Herald  of  the  Fair  God  117 

rags  over  one  leg  and  revealed  decaying  flesh,  sloughing  away 
in  the  ravages  of  bone  leprosy.  He  showed  it  without  emotion, 
as  some  argument  in  the  abstract.  And  he  was  arguing  for  a 
little  corn,  just  a  little,  and  he  made  his  palm  into  a  tiny  cup 
to  demonstrate.  The  administrador  opened  a  limp  account 
book,  held  his  pudgy  forefinger  against  a  page  for  a  second, 
then  shut  it  decisively.  "No,  no,  Pedro,  not  while  you  owe 
these  twelve  reales.  Think,  man,  if  you  should  die.  You 
have  no  sons;  we  would  lose." 

"But,  mi  patron,  there's  my  nephew." 

"True,  and  he  has  his  own  father's  debt  waiting  for 
him." 

"Just  a  wee  little,"  begged  the  man. 

The  overseer  shook  his  head.  "When  you've  worked 
to-day,  yes.  Then  you  may  have  six  cents'  worth,  and  the 
other  six  cents  of  the  day's  wages  counted  off  your  debt. 
There  now,  get  along  with  you  to  the  timber  cutting." 

The  administrador  brightened  on  perceiving  Driscoll.  How 
was  His  Mercy?  How  had  His  Mercy  passed  the  night? 
How " 

"Where,"  interposed  Driscoll,  "might  one  find  the  nearest 
stage  to  Mexico?" 

Almost  nowhere,  was  the  reply.  What  with  the  French 
intervention  and  guerrillas,  the  Compania  de  Diligencias  had 
about  suspended  its  service  altogether.  "Then,"  said  Driscoll, 
"could  we  hire  some  sort  of  a  rig  from  you?"  The  adminis- 
trador believed  so,  though  he  regretted  continuously  that 
Their  Mercies  must  be  leaving  so  soon. 

With  a  nod  of  thanks  Driscoll  turned  curiously  to  the  loaded 
shelves,  and  gazed  at  the  bolts  of  manta,  calico,  and  red  flannel. 
"Jiminy  crickets,"  he  burst  forth,  "is  there  anybody  on  this 
ranch  who  can  sew?" 

Yes,  the  wife  of  one  of  the  clerks  was  a  passable  seamstress. 
She  did  such  work  for  the  Donas  at  the  House. 


jjg  The  Missourian 

"And  can  she  do  some  to-day,  and  can  you  send  it  on  to 
overtake  me  by  to-morrow?" 

Most  certainly. 

Then  Driscoll  invested  in  a  number  of  varas  of  calico  print. 
It  was  the  best  available.  But  the  light  blue  flowering  was 
modest  enough,  and  there  was  even  a  cheery  freshness  about 
it  that  called  up  mellowing  recollections  of  bright-eyed  Mis- 
souri girls.  Yet  each  time  he  thought  of  the  costumes  he  had 
ordered,  he  blushed  until  his  hair  roots  tingled. 

Intent  once  more  on  departure,  Din  Driscoll  hastened  back 
to  the  House.  But  he  only  learned  that  Jacqueline  and 
Berthe  were  not  up  yet.  He  mumbled  at  such  looseness  in 
discipline,  until  he  remembered  that  they  were  not  troopers, 
but  girls.  And  since  girls  are  to  be  waited  for,  he  did  it  in 
his  own  room.  From  his  saddlebags  he  laid  out  shaving 
material.  The  Old  Brigade  had  advised  these  things,  while 
speculating  with  dry  concern  on  what  was  correct  among 
emperors.  After  much  sharp  snapping  of  eyes,  for  the  razor 
pulled,  the  clean  line  of  his  jaw  emerged  from  lather  and 
stubble.  "Just  in  case  any  emperor  should  happen  in,"  he 
tried  to  explain  it,  taking  a  transparently  jocose  manner  with 
himself. 

Eight  o'clock!  Even  civilized  people  do  not  stay  abed  that 
late!  Yet  he  found  only  Berthe  in  the  dining  room.  She 
had  come  on  a  foraging  expedition.  He  watched  the  little 
Bretonne's  deft  arranging  of  a  battered  tray,  and  offered  droll 
suggestions  until  she  began  to  suspect  that  he  really  did  not 
mean  them.  Berthe  was  a  nice  girl  with  soft  brown  hair,  and 
a  serious,  gentle  way  about  her. 

The  maid  found  mademoiselle  not  only  still  abed,  but 
stretched  on  a  rack  of  torture  as  well,  her  helpless  gaze  fixed 
on  a  Mexican  woman  with  a  hot  iron.  It  was  a  flatiron,  and 
it  was  being  applied  to  Jacqueline's  poor  rumpled  frock.  The 
dress  was  spread  over  a  cloth  on  the  floor,  and  the  woman 


The  Herald  of  the  Fair  God  119 

strove  tantalizingly,  and  Jacqueline  was  trying  to  direct  her. 

"Madame  is  served,"   Berthe  announced. 

Madame  raised  herself  on  an  elbow  and  looked  at  the  tray, 
at  the  sorry  chinaware,  at  the  earthern  supplements.  "  Served  ?" 
she  repeated.  "Berthe,  exaggeration  is  a  very  bad  habit. 
But  child,  what  are  you  about  ?  This  is  not  a  petit  dejeuner! " 

"I  know,  madame,  but  he  told  me  to  bring  it.  He  said 
we'd  be  traveling,  and  there  wouldn't  be  time  for  a  second 
breakfast." 

" He?    Who  in  the  world " 

"Why,  the,  the  American  monsieur.  He  said  just  coffee 
wasn't  enough,  and  for  me  to  bring  along  the  entire  contest  of 
markmanship — the,  the  whole  shooting  match — and  for 
madame  to  hurry." 

"Berthe!  one  would  say  you  thought  him  a  prince." 

"He — he  is  a  kind  of  prince,"  said  the  little  Bretonne  dog- 
gedly. 

Madame  whistled  softly.     Still,  she  ate  a  hearty  breakfast. 

Meantime,  outside  two  resplendent  horsemen  were  galloping 
up  the  curving  sweep  of  the  wide  road.  Their  haste  smacked 
of  vast  importance,  and  the  very  dazzling  flash  of  their  brass 
helmets  in  the  sunlight  had  a  certain  arrogance.  The  fore- 
most jerked  his  horse's  bit  with  a  cruel  petulance  and  drew  up 
before  the  hacienda  house.  Several  natives  were  basking  on  the 
steps,  and  he  cut  at  them  sharply  with  his  whip. 

"Wake,  you  r-rats!"  A  Teutonic  thickness  of  speech 
clogged  his  utterance,  and  he  turned  to  his  companion.  "Tell 
this  canaille,"  he  snarled  in  Flemish,  "to  go  fetch  their  master 
here  at  once." 

The  administrador  came  hurrying,  and  was  overcome. 
His  hospitable  flow  gushed  and  choked  at  its  source  before 
the  splendor  of  the  two  cavaliers.  They  were  Belgians.  The 
first  wore  a  long  blue  coat  bedecked  with  golden  leaves  and 
belted  with  a  sash.  Crosses  and  stars  dangled  on  his  breast. 


I2o  The  Missourian 

His  breeches  were  white  doe,  and  his  high  glossy  boots  had 
wrinkles  like  a  mousquetaire's.  Heavy  tassels  flapped  from  his 
sword  hilt.  A  brass  eagle  was  perched  on  his  helmet.  Alto- 
gether, here  was  a  glittering  bit  of  flotsam  from  the  new 
Mexican  Empire.  But  a  narrowness  between  the  man's 
eyes  affected  one  unpleasantly.  It  was  a  mean  and  a  sour 
scowl,  of  a  fellow  lately  come  into  authority.  The  other  man 
graced  the  ornate  uniform  of  an  aide  in  Maximilian's  imperial 
household. 

"Your  Mercy  is — is  the  Emperor?"  stammered  the  poor  fat 
administrador. 

He  had,  indeed,  heard  rumors  of  Maximilian  on  one  of 
his  ostentatious  voyages.  The  first  Belgian,  however,  was  in 
no  way  embarrassed  at  the  question.  It  was  a  natural  mistake, 
in  his  opinion. 

"Explain  to  this  imbecile,"  he  ordered,  "since  there's  no 
better  here  to  receive  us." 

The  aide  explained.  His  Imperial  Majesty,  Maximiliano, 
was  returning  to  his  capital.  Fascinated  by  the  beauty  of 
the  tropics,  as  well  as  ill  of  a  cough,  he  had  lingered  for  a  week 
past  at  the  adjoining  hacienda  of  Las  Palmas.  He  had  also 
been  deep  in  studies  for  the  welfare  of  his  people.  But  now 
the  business  of  the  Empire  demanded  that  he  relieve  the 
Empress  of  her  regency.  Accordingly,  His  Majesty  and  His 
Majesty's  retinue  had  left  Las  Palmas  that  very  morning,  and 
would  shortly  pass  by  the  hacienda  of  Moctezuma.  His 
Majesty,  when  en  voyage,  always  took  a  loving  interest  in  his 
subjects^,  and  a  sincere  ovation  never  failed  to  touch  his  heart. 
So  Monsieur  Eloin — here  the  aide  glanced  with  some  irony 
at  the  first  Belgian — so  Monsieur  filoin  thought  that  the 
master  of  La  Moctezuma  would  be  grateful  to  know  of  His 
Majesty's  approach,  in  order  to  gather  the  peons  from  the 
fields  to  welcome  him.  It  would  be  as  well,  perhaps,  to  reveal 
nothing  to  the  Emperor  of  this  thoughtful  hint. 


The  Herald  of  the  Fair  God  121 

"To  make  it  quite  plain,"  concluded  the  speaker,  "can  you 
assemble  enough  men  within  an  hour  to  do  a  seeming  and 
convincing  reverence  to  your  ruler?" 

"And  tell  him,"  interrupted  Monsieur  filoin,  "not  to  forget 
the  green  boughs  waving  in  their  hands.  Make  him  under- 
stand that  there  will  be  consequences  if  it's  not  spontaneous." 

As  they  galloped  back  to  rejoin  Maximilian,  the  imperial 
aide  was  thoughtful.  "I  can't  help  it,"  he  said  aloud,  "I  feel 
sorry  for  him.  How  his  blue  eyes  glisten — there  are  actually 
tears  in  them — when  he  talks  to  these  Indians  of  freedom  and 
a  higher  life !  He  thinks  they  love  him !  And  all  this  elegance 
— no  wonder  they  believe  that  the  Fair  God  is  come  at  last  to 
right  their  sorrows." 

"The  loathsome  beasts!" 

"But  I  do  feel  sorry.  He  really  believes  that  he  will  verify 
the  tradition  and  be  their  savior.  It's  his  sincere  goodness  of 
heart.  Man,  how  exalted  he  is!" 

"But  where's  the  harm?" 

"Because,  because  the  poor  devils  were  fooled  once  before. 
And  their  new  Messiah  may  deceive  them  as  bitterly  with 
unwise  meddling  as  Cortez  did  with  greed  and  cruelty." 

"Messiah  for  these  pigs!"  £loin  sneered.  "What  pleasure 
it  gives  him,  /  can't  see." 


CHAPTER  XV 
THE  RITUAL 

"...    a  bearded  man, 
Pamper'd  with  rank  luxuriousness  and  ease." 

—Dante. 

THE  Emperor  was  coming — elaborately,  by  august  degrees. 

First,  and  far  in  advance,  arrived  a  haughty  pack  liveried  in 
the  royal  green  of  ancient  Aztec  dynasties.  New  tenants 
might  have  been  moving  on  this  bright  May  day,  for  the 
flunkies  attended  a  small  caravan  of  household  stuff,  which 
they  crammed  through  the  gaping  doorway  as  nuts  into  a 
goose's  maw.  The  stuff  was  all  royal,  of  royalty's  absolute 
necessities.  There  were  soft  rugs,  and  finely  spun  tapestries, 
and  portieres  to  smother  a  whisper.  There  was  a  high-backed 
chair,  and  a  velvet-covered  dais  for  the  high-backed  chair. 
There  were  brushes,  whose  stroke  caressed  gently  and  pur- 
ringly  the  Hapsburg  whisker.  There  was  a  Roman  poet, 
fastidiously  bound,  and  then — there  was  the  Ritual. 

The  Ritual  was  a  massive  tome,  of  glazed,  gilt-edged  paper, 
of  print  as  big  for  the  proclaiming  of  truth  as  the  Family  Bible, 
of  weight  to  burden  a  strong  man,  of  contents  to  stagger  a 
giant  brain,  unless  the  giant  brain  had  in  it  the  convolution 
of  a  smile.  Maximilian  and  Charlotte  had  reigned  a  year,  and 
so  far  the  Ritual  was  the  supreme  monument  to  the  glory 
and  usefulness  of  their  Empire.  It  decreed,  by  Imperial 
dictation  and  signature,  the  etiquette  that  must  and  should 
be  observed  in  the  courtly  circle.  But  alas,  you  can't  codify 
genuflections,  nor  yet  a  handshake. 

122 


The  Ritual  123 

The  next  degree  in  the  imperial  advent  was  the  imperial 
courier,  who  proclaimed  from  a  curveting  steed  what  every- 
body suspected.  "Our  August  Sovereign"  was  approaching. 

Several  hundred  peons  stared  with  open  mouths.  Gathered 
before  the  house,  they  prattled  to  one  another  in  childlike 
expectancy  of  the  Senor  Emperador.  Most  of  them  were 
learning  for  the  first  time  that  they  had  an  emperor.  Still, 
it  sufficed  to  know  this  was  an  occasion  for  auto-inspiring 
vivas,  like  once  when  the  Ilustrisimo  Bishop  came.  They 
took  new  hold  on  the  green  boughs  they  were  to  wave.  A 
handkerchief  here  and  there  fluttered  from  a  bamboo  pole. 
Down  in  an  adobe  village  by  the  river  junction,  every  gala 
scrap  of  calico  print,  whether  shirt  or  skirt,  pended  from  cords 
stretched  across  the  street;  and  cotton  curtains,  some  of  crude 
drawn  work,  hung  outside  the  windows.  All  the  poor  finery 
of  the  Indians  was  on  exhibition  to  do  honor  to  a  gorgeous 
Old  World  court.  But  the  fiesta  air  had  already  gotten  into 
the  susceptible  native  lungs,  and  that  alone,  with  only  a 
trumpet's  blare,  would  make  for  a  hurrah  in  genuine  fervor. 

The  roomy  porch  of  the  old  mansion  was  crowded  with  the 
chief  people  of  the  hacienda,  clerks,  foremen,  house  servants, 
besides  the  administrador  and  the  chaplain.  Behind  a  remote 
column  were  the  three  wanderers  in  the  wilderness;  the  Storm 
Centre,  the  Marchioness,  and  the  Maid.  They  were  to  have 
been  gone  by  now,  and  yet  it  was  not  the  coming  of  the  emperor 
that  had  stopped  them.  The  cause  was  nearer  at  hand. 
Smoking  a  long  black  cigar,  "grizzled  and  fierce,  as  ornate  in 
braid  and  decorations  as  a  bullfighter,"  Colonel  Dupin  had 
delayed  them. 

His  Cossacks  thronged  the  colonnade.  The  brick-red  of 
their  raw  leather  jackets  splotched  every  other  color  with  rust. 
The  Contra  Guerrillas  were  many  things.  They  were  French- 
men and  Mexicans.  They  were  Americans,  Confederate 
deserters,  Union  deserters.  They  were  Negroes  and  Arabs. 


I24  The  Missourian 

They  were  the  ruined  of  fortune,  now  soldiers  of  fortune. 
They  were  pirates  and  highwaymen.  They  were  gold  hunters, 
gamblers,  swindlers.  They  were  fugitives  from  the  noose, 
from  the  garrote,  from  the  guillotine.  But  they  were  all  right 
willing  desperadoes.  And  there  was  not  a  softened  feature 
on  a  man  of  the  troop.  Only  a  tigerish  ferocity  could  lead 
them,  could  hold  them. 

They  surrounded  the  Missourian  on  the  hacienda  portico. 
If  only  for  his  debonnaire  indifference,  they  knew  him  for  a 
"bad  man"  such  as  none  of  them  might  ever  hope  to  be. 
And  they  watched  him  like  lynxes,  though  he  was  unarmed. 
Yet  he  did  not  look  "bad."  He  merely  looked  bored.  He 
was  a  prisoner,  but  not  the  only  one.  Anastasio  Murguia 
fidgetted  among  the  Cossacks  on  his  own  porch.  His  restless 
eyes  roved  incessantly  over  the  crowd,  seeking  his  daughter, 
but  they  were  steadily  baffled. 

Down  in  the  valley,  where  the  Rio  Moctezuma  joined  its 
course  with  the  Panuco,  a  dusty  mist  moved  nearer  along  the  old 
Spanish  highway,  and  faintly  there  came  the  sound  of  clarions. 
An  eager  murmuring  arose  from  the  throng  on  the  hillside. 
It  swelled  more  confidently  to  a  buzz  as  the  far-away  dust 
lifted  at  the  ford  and  revealed  the  beaded  stringing  of  a  numer- 
ous company.  The  distant  bugles  rang  clearer  on  the  pure 
ah*.  "Yes,  he  comes,"  the  people  cried,  "  There!  Seest  thou, 
hombre? — There!  Viva  el  Senor  Emperador!" 

For  Colonel  Dupin  the  cloud  of  dust  would  shortly  evolve 
into  a  staying  hand  of  mercy,  into  the  exasperating  stupidity 
of  mercy.  He  had  captured  the  American  not  ten  minutes 
before,  and  here  was  interference  in  a  gauzy  haze  of  dust. 
He  signed  to  one  of  his  men  to  follow  with  Murguia,  and  he 
himself  placed  a  gauntleted  hand  on  Driscoll's  shoulder. 
"Now,"  he  said. 

But  a  white  figure  of  Mexican  rebosa  and  silken  instep 
moved  swiftly  from  behind  a  column  and  touched  the  Tiger's 


The  Ritual  125 

arm.  Both  Jacqueline  and  Berthe  had  been  watching  the 
Cossack  chief  rather  than  the  spectacle  in  the  valley.  And  as  he 
turned  on  his  prisoner,  Berthe  half  screamed  and  clutched 
at  the  bosom  of  her  dress.  It  was  Jacqueline  who  gained 
his  side.  She  addressed  him  sharply  as  one  who  hates  to 
reopen  a  tedious  argument. 

"Monsieur  Dupin,"  she  cried,  "have  I  not  already  per- 
mitted myself  to  tell  you — yes,  I  repeat,  you  are  mistaken. 
He  is  in  no  sense  whatever  an  accomplice  of  Rodrigo  Galan." 

The  Tiger  heard,  no  doubt,  but  he  did  not  stop.  He 
kept  on  toward  the  door,  Driscoll  beside  him,  and  his  men 
around  him.  He  meant  to  pass  through  the  house.  Some 
secluded  corral  in  the  back  would  do  for  the  execution.  Dris- 
coll seemed  as  indifferent  as  ever,  though  there  was  a  lithe, 
alert  spring  in  his  step.  Behind  him  Murguia  was  moaning, 
praying  to  see  his  daughter.  Berthe  followed,  bewildered, 
and  silently  wringing  her  hands.  But  the  death  march  was 
so  business-like,  and  every  one  else  was  so  intent  on  the  ap- 
proach of  a  royally  born  person,  that  the  crowds  shoved  aside 
by  the  little  group  never  once  suspected  that  they  had  just 
brushed  elbows  with  tragedy  in  the  making. 

Jacqueline  caught  her  breath,  sucked  it  in  rather,  in  a  pang 
of  angry  despair;  and  plucking  up  her  skirts  she  ran  ahead 
until  she  could  oppose  her  slender  figure  squarely  in  front  of 
the  burly  Frenchman.  If  he  were  to  move  on,  he  must  trample 
her  down.  Her  eyes,  usually  so  big  and  round  and  shading 
to  a  depth  of  blue  with  their  lively  mischief,  were  all  but 
closed,  and  through  the  narrowed  lashes  they  gleamed  like 
white  steel.  Her  voice,  though,  was  clear  and  even,  of  a 
studied  courtesy. 

"Yes,  I  know,  Monsieur  le  Coronel,  suspicion  with  you  is 
quite  enough.  But,"  she  went  on  in  contempt  and^  feigned 
surprise  at  his  dullness,  "this  rage  of  yours  at  being  outwitted 
by  Rodrigo  Galan  blinds  you  to  something  else. — Pardon, 


}26  The  Missourian 

monsieur,  a  Frenchman  does  not  jostle  a  woman. — Thank 
you." 

"But  the  jostling  by  a  woman's  tongue,  mademoiselle.— 
Well,  what  is  it  ?  Have  mercy,  be  brief,  since  I  am  not  even 
to  breathe  while  my  lady  talks." 

"I  was  thinking,  dear  monsieur,  of  the  feelings  of  an  artist, 
to  which  you  are  very,  very  blind." 

"Feelings,  artist?    Name  of  a  name,  mademoiselle!" 

"Precisely,  Maximilian's  feelings.  You  know  how  he  ab- 
hors the  sight  of  blood.  Ma  foi,  and  I  agree  with  him." 

"Go  it,  Miss  Jack-leen!"  Driscoll  abetted  her.  Never  a 
word  of  their  French  did  he  understand,  but  he  knew  that  she 
had  a  power  of  speech.  Dupin  evidently  knew  it  better  yet, 
for  though  he  laughed,  he  did  not  laugh  easily. 

"Never  fear,"  he  said,  "His  Majesty's  delicate  prejudices 
are  safe.  It  will  be  all  underground  before  he  comes,  and  no 
muss  at  all." 

"But  you  forget,"  Jacqueline  cried  testily,  "you  forget  the 
imagination  of  a  poet." 

"And  he  will  imagine " 

"Yes,  because  I  shall  tell  him." 

"Sacre " 

"And  possibly  he  would  brace  his  feelings  to  a  second 
aesthetic  horror  as  a  rebuke  for  the  first.  In  a  word,  my 
colonel,  there  will  be  one  more  body  to  follow — underground. 
Now  is  this  quite  clear,  or — do  you  require  my  promise  on  it?" 

The  savage  old  brow  manifested  the  desire  to  make  her  a 
victim  as  well,  but  in  this  extra  blood-thirst  she  knew  that 
Driscoll  was  safe.  "I  understand,  Mademoiselle  la  Marquise," 
he  said,  laying  on  heavily  the  suave  gallantry  of  a  Frenchman. 
"Yes,  I  understand.  Prince  Max  values  Your  Ladyship's  good 

taste  so.  highly Pardi,  I  believe  he  would  certainly  shoot 

me  if  you  told  him  too." 

"Exactly."  Jacqueline  coldly  assented. 


The  Ritual  127 

"And  Monsieur  1'Americain  may  congratulate  himself  on 
the  influence  of  mademoiselle,  the  arbiter  elegantiarum — with 
His  Majesty." 

"As  Monsieur  le  Tigre  may  congratulate  himself  that  the 
American  does  not  understand  this  insult,  sir." 

Behind  her  rose  a  dry  hysterical  cackle  of  renewed  hope. 
"The  Little  Black  Crow!"  she  exclaimed.  "See,  my  colonel, 
he  is  not  worth  an  execution  all  to  himself,  so  do  we  all  go 
back  to  contemplate  Prince  Max's  loving  ovation." 

"The  Emperor  arrives!"  she  cried  gayly,  returning  to  the 
porch.  With  the  others  she  was  once  more  behind  the  remote 
column,  an  end  of  the  rebosa  hanging  over  her  arm  ready  to 
be  flung  across  her  face.  "But  what — Helas,  I  haven't  my 
Ritual  with  me." — The  Ritual  classified  every  movement, 
every  breath  of  the  Court,  as  rigidly  and  with  as  little  conscious- 
ness of  humor  as  Linnaeus  did  his  flowers. — "It  can't  be  a 
Minor  Palace  Luncheon  of  the  Third  Class,"  she  mused,  "and 
it  isn't  Grand  Court  Mourning  of  the  First  Degree.  Ha,  I 
have  it,  He — that  'H'  is  a  capital,  please,  not  as  a  sacrilege,  but 
to  be  Ritualistic — He  is  out  on  a  voyage  of  the  Minor  Class, 
Small  Service  of  Honor,  Lesser  Cortege.  Now  then,  all's  com- 
fortable; no  room  for  plebeian  misconceptions." 

On  they  came,  each  rigidly  after  his  kind,  a  Noah's  procession 
of  Dignitaries  with  the  August  Sovereign  first  of  all.  To 
bring  on  the  majestic  climax  so  early  was  illogical,  of  course, 
but  dust  having  happened  to  be  created  before  precedence,  the 
Cortege  was  changed  the  other  way  round  for  a  voyage,  so  that 
the  First  Category  people  breathed  what  the  August  Sovereign 
kicked  up  and  kicked  up  some  additional  for  the  Second 
Category,  and  the  Second  did  the  same  for  the  Third,  and  so 
on  down  to  the  Ninth,  or  "And  all  others,"  who  breathed  the 
best  they  could  and  paid  the  bill. 

Nothing  preceded  the  royal  coach  except  the  royal  escort, 
and  that  by  exactly  two  hundred  paces,  in  which  interval  a 


i28  The  Missourian 

canonical  obligation  was  laid  on  the  dust  to  settle.  It  was  a 
particularly  gallant  royal  escort.  The  Empress's  Own,  or  the 
Dragoons,  or  Lancers,  or  Guardsmen,  or  Hussars,  or  what- 
ever they  were,  were  picked  Mexicans;  and  they  were  frankly 
proud  of  their  rich  crimson  tunics;  also,  perhaps,  of  their 
heavily  fringed  standard  worked  by  Carlota  herself.  A  cavalry 
detachment  in  fur  caps  with  a  feather  completed  the  body 
guard.  Mexico  is  a  hot  country,  but  that  was  no  reason  why 
an  Austrian  regiment  should  sacrifice  its  furry  identity. 

"Belgians  too!  exclaimed  Jacqueline.  "And  the  Mexican 
emigre's!  They  came  back  when  we  made  it  safe  for  them. 
But  where,  oh  where,  are  the  French?" 

"Everywhere,"  growled  the  Tiger,  "in  mountains  and 
swamps,  dying  everywhere,  fighting  for  this  Austrian  archduke. 
But  he  doesn't  like  to  be  seen  with  them." 

Behind  eight  white  mules  of  Spain,  four  abreast,  rolled  the 
coach  of  the  Emperor,  solitary  and  marked  as  majesty  itself. 
There  were  postilions  and  outriders  and  footmen  arrayed  in 
the  Imperial  livery  with  the  Imperial  crown.  And  on  the 
coach  door  flashed  Maximilian's  escutcheon,  his  archducal 
arms  grafted  on  the  torso  of  his  new  imperial  estate.  There 
were  the  winged  griffins  with  absurd  scrolls  for  tails.  They 
had  voracious  claws,  had  these  droll  beasts  of  prey,  and  they 
clutched  at  an  oval  frame  ruthlessly,  as  though  to  shatter  it 
and  get  at  a  certain  bird  within.  Poor  bird,  his  shelter  looked 
very  fragile,  and  he  about  to  be  smothered  under  an  enormous 
diadem  as  urider  an  extinguisher.  He  was  none  other  than 
the  Mexican  eagle  perched  on  his  own  native  cactus,  and  he 
desired  only  peace  and  quiet  while  he  throttled  the  snake  of 
ignorance  in  his  talons,  which  snake  had  been  his  worry  ever 
since  the  Aztec  hordes  from  the  north  had  first  caged  him  in. 
Beneath  the  Imperial  arms  was  the  motto,  "Equidad  en  la 
Justicia,"  but  it  seemed  an  idle  promise. 

In  the  huge  traveling  coach,  with  a  greyhound  at  his  feet, 


The  Ritual  129 

sat  one  lone  man.  He  had  a  soft  skin,  rosy  like  a  baby's,  and 
blue  eyes,  and  what  some  called  a  beautiful  golden  beard. 
The  huzzas  swelled  and  surged  from  all  sides,  and  he  smiled 
on  the  people.  But  he  gazed  beyond  them,  and  into  the  blue 
eyes  came  the  light  of  exaltation  such  as  is  inspired  by  music 
that  starts  a  heartstring  in  vague  trembling. 

The  Cortege  followed  in  carriages  one  hundred  paces  apart. 
The  first  held  the  First  Grand  Dignitary,  the  only  Dignitary 
of  Third  Category  rank,  and  hence  the  only  one  who  could 
stand  near  the  throne  after  Highnesses,  Grand  Collars,  and 
Ambassadors.  He  was  the  Grand  Marshal  of  the  Court  and 
Minister  of  the  Imperial  Household.  His  privileges  consisted 
of  seeing  "His  Majesty  when  called  for,"  and  of  "communi- 
cating with  Him  in  writing."  But  he  could  not  see  Him  when 
not  called  for.  In  reality  the  Grand  Marshal  was  a  quiet  old 
Mexican  gentleman  who  seemed  ill  at  ease.  He  was  General 
Almonte,  one  of  those  conservatives  who  had  sought  their  coun- 
try's tranquillity  in  foreign  intervention.  But  Maximilian  had 
bespangled  him  into  a  Dignidad,  and  thus  lost  to  himself  an 
able  politician's  usefulness.  The  real  man  of  affairs  was  an 
obscure  Belgian  who  openly  and  insolently  despised  everything 
Mexican.  -He  also  sang  chansonettes.  He  was  the  sour- 
browed  Monsieur  Eloin  already  mentioned. 

Dignidades  enough  to  make  up  the  Lesser  Cortege  were  not 
lacking.  Riding  alone  was  the  Chief  of  the  Military  House- 
hold, who  could  return  no  salutes  when  near  His  Majesty 
except  from  First  and  Second  Category  personages.  Under 
the  circumstances,  recognition  of  his  own  father  would  have 
been  rank  heresy.  Then  there  was  the  Grand  Physician,  the 
Grand  Chaplain,  and  Honorary  Physicians  and  Chaplains, 
who  could  wear  Grand  Uniforms  and  a  Cordon  and 
eat  at  the  Grand  Marshal's  table;  and  there  were  Cham- 
berlains and  Secretaries  of  Ceremony  and  Aides.  Many 
surreptitiously  peeped  into  a  monster  volume  as  they 


130  The  Missourian 

rode.  It  was  not  a  mass  book  nor  a  materia  medica.  It  was 
the  Ritual. 

The  Sixth  Grand  Dignitary  of  Cabellerizo  Mayor  helped 
His  Majesty  to  descend  from  His  coach.  He  did  it  mid  vocif- 
erous cheering  and  waving  of  boughs  and  agitation  of  handker- 
chiefs on  bamboo  poles.  Aides  and  Deputy  Dignitaries 
worked  industriously  driving  back  the  simple  Inditos. 

"'The  General  Aide  de  Camp,'"  Jacqueline  quoted  rever- 
ently, '"will  keep  the  people  from  the  Imperial  coach,  but 
without  maiming  them.'" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HE  or  THE  DEBONAIR  SCEPTRE 

"  And  let  us  make  a  name." — Genesis. 

THE  flame  of  lofty  resolve  burned  with  a  high,  present  heat 
in  Maximilian's  dreamy  eyes.  But  the  thing  was  not  states- 
manship. The  danger  dial  pointed  to  some  latest  darling 
phantasy. 

When  the  young  prince — he  was  but  thirty-three — descended 
from  his  carriage,  he  signed  that  the  Cortege  should  not  form 
as  yet.  And  instead  of  mounting  the  colonnade  steps,  he 
turned  and  mingled  with  his  humble  subjects.  A  pleased 
murmur  arose  among  the  Indians.  "Que  simpdtico!"  they 
breathed  in  little  gasps  of  admiring  awe. 

The  unusually  tall  and  very  fair  young  man,  in  the  simplicity 
of  black,  with  only  the  grand  cross  of  St.  Stephen  about  his 
neck,  moved  about  among  the  ragged  peons.  Now  and  again 
he  spoke  to  one  and  another,  questioning  earnestly.  Anxious 
orderlies  were  quick  to  brush  aside  the  touch  of  an  elbow,  but 
to  those  outside  the  circle,  watching  what  he  would  do,  he 
seemed  alone  with  his  people.  And  in  thought,  he  really  was. 
There  was  a  great  pity  upon  his  face,  and  it  was  the  more 
poignant  because  these  timorous  children  could  not  comprehend 
the  wretchedness  which  so  appealed  to  him. 

"And  thou?"  he  demanded  of  an  aged  man  whose  tatters 
hung  heavy  in  filth. 

A  look  of  poor  simple  craft  came  into  the  Indian's  face.  "I, 
senor?  Maria  purisima,  I  am  cursed  of  heaven.  But  the 


The  Missourian 

rich  senor  wishes  to  know — see!"  and  ere  Monsieur  FJoin 
could  prevent,  he  bared  a  limb  of  rotting  flesh.  "If  it  were 
not  for  my  leg,  Your  Mercy " 

"Animal,"  snarled  Eloin  in  his  ear,  "can't  you  say  'Your 
Majesty'?" 

"Your — Majesty,  or  if  I  had  children,  I  could  make  my 
debt — oh,  grande,  grande,  twenty  reales,  maybe.  And  then, 
and  then  I  should  have  a  red  and  purple  scrape,  with  a  green 
eagle,  like  my  nephew  Felipe  has. — He  owes,"  the  man  added 
in  a  kind  of  pride,  "thirty  reales,  my  nephew  Felipe  does." 

But  his  wiles  failed.  The  rich  senor  turned  toward  the 
colonnade,  his  sailor's  easy  swing  giving  way  to  a  tread  of 
determination.  Also,  the  pure  flame  burned  consumingly. 

From  the  top  of  the  steps,  between  files  of  dismounted 
Dragoons,  Maximilian  looked  over  the  people,  beyond,  in  some 
far  away  gaze  of  the  spirit. 

Jacqueline  hid  the  golden  gleam  of  her  hair  under  the 
rebosa.  "Silencium!"  she  whispered,  laying  a  finger  across 
her  lips.  "For  now  we'll  have  the  mountains  to  frisk,  and  the 
little  hills  to  skip.  In  all  the  Orient  there  blooms  no  flower 
of  eloquence  like  unto  his." 

The  monarch's  inspired  look  promised  as  much.  "Mex- 
icans," he  began.  The  peons  huddled  closer,  their  responsive 
natures  quickened.  His  sonorous  voice  was  electrical,  despite 
an  accent,  despite  the  German  over-gush  of  stammering  when 
words  could  not  keep  pace  with  the  vast  idea.  But  the  ore 
word  of  address  gave  the  peons  a  dignity  they  had  never  sus- 
pected. 

"Mexicans:  you  have  desired  me.  Acceding  to  the  spon- 
taneous expression  of  your  wishes,  I  have  come  to  your  noble 
country — our  dear  patria — to  watch  over  and  direct  your  des- 
tinies. And  with  me  came  one  who  feels  for  you  all  the  tender- 
ness of  a  mother,  who  is  your  Empress  and  my  August  Spouse." 

"But  not,"  murmured  the  sententious  lady  of  the  rebosa, 


He  of  the  Debonair  Sceptre  133 

'"'august  enough  to  appear  before  Him  unless  He  sends  for 
Her." 

Proceeding,  the  speaker  solemnly  told  them  of  his  divine 
right  as  a  Hapsburg,  as  one  of  the  Caesars,  and  of  his  anoint- 
ment by  the  Vicar  of  God  at  Rome,  so  that  to  God  alone  was 
he  responsible.  As  a  Mexican  he  gloried  with  them  in  their 
liberties,  in  the  True  Liberty  he  brought,  for  had  not  the  Holy 
Father  said  to  him, "  Great  are  the  rights  of  a  people,  but  greater 
and  more  sacred  are  the  rights  of  the  Church?"  Hence  he 
burned  with  Heaven-given  fire  to  lift  them,  his  subjects,  into 
the  vanguard  of  Nineteenth  Century  Progress. 

Here  Maximilian  paused  mid  cheers,  and  thinking  on  his 
next  words,  his  delicate  hand  of  a  gentleman  clenched. 

"Mexicans,"  he  began  again,  now  in  the  vibrant  tone  of  an 
overpowering  emotion.  "I  pray  to  fulfil  the  mission  for  which 
God  has  placed  me  here.  There  are  six  millions  of  you,  a 
sober  and  industrious  race.  Cortez  found  you  so,  and  you 
astounded  him  with  your  civilization.  But  the  conditions  that 
followed  have  enslaved  you.  Enslaved,  I  repeat,  for  you  are 
bound  by  debt.  Your  hacendado  master  contrives  that  you 
cannot  pay  even  his  usurious  interest.  The  food  you  eat,  you 
must  buy  from  him,  at  his  prices,  of  the  quality  he  prescribes. 
And  if  your  debt  be  not  sufficient,  that  is,  if  there  seems  a  chance 
of  your  paying  it  off,  then  you  must  increase  it  to  obtain  your 
daily  bread.  Your  very  children  are  slaves  at  birth,  since  with 
their  first  birth  they  inherit  your  chains.  And  if  you  or  your 
children  run  away,  you  or  they  may  be  brought  back  as  run- 
away slaves.  It  is  thus  that  I  find  you,  Mexicans.  And  I 
find  you  awaiting  a  liberator,  waiting  vainly  through  the 
centuries.  But  now,  at  last,  the  reward  of  your  suffering  and 
your  faith  has  come.  In  a  word,  which  shall  be  formally 
recorded  in  the  Journal  Official,  We  this  day  decree " 

"I  knew  it,"  exclaimed  Jacqueline,  "he  always  coins  his 
inspirations.". 


134  The  Missourian 

" We  this  day  decree  your  debts  extinguished,  and  each 

and  every  peon  in  all  our  beautiful  country — a  free  man!" 

"Yet  with  not,"  said  Jacqueline,  "a  foot  of  land  to  be  free 
on.  But  you  know,  messieurs,  that  Utopia  is  an  asylum  for  the 
blind." 

"It's  a  spider  on  his  ceiling,"  muttered  Colonel  Dupin, 
touching  his  own  head  significantly. 

The  emancipator's  face  was  beatific.  He  heard  the  peons 
acclaim  him,  as  gradually  they  began  to  understand  that  there 
was  to  be  no  more  unhappiness.  But  it  was  curious  how 
far,  far  away  the  sweet  music  sounded,  even  when  some 
belated  "Viva  el  Senor  Emperador!"  cracked  in  ludicrous 
falsetto.  For  the  poet-prince  these  human  chords  might  have 
been  the  strings  of  a  harp,  softly  touched.  And  as  far  away 
as  posterity. 

Jacqueline  fell  to  clapping  her  hands  noiselessly.  "Oh, 
la-la1,"  she  cried,  "if  we  are  not  to  have  an  epic  flight  from 
Monsieur  Eloin!" 

It  was  true  in  a  degree.  Five  minutes  of  stupendous  history 
making  had  just  elapsed,  and  some  graceful  tribute  was  due. 
The  royal  favorite  had  foreseen  the  need,  and  he  was  prepared ; 
but  whether  by  borrowing  or  originating,  it  is  impossible  to 
say. 

"'Vous  1'avez  relev6;  votre  main  souveraine 
L'a  rendu  d'un  seul  coup  a  la  famille  humaine. 
De  ce  premier  bienfait,  Sire,  soyez  content: 
L'Indien  fera  de  vous  MAXIMILIEN  LE  GRAND!'  " 

"Parbleu,  why  not?"  demanded  Jacqueline.  "If  only  he 
were  as  great  as  his  decrees,  poor  man! " 

Maximilian  by  this  time  remembered  that  he  must  be  some- 
body's guest.  "Who  receives  Us  here?"  he  asked.  But  none 
of  his  court  knew.  Even  Monsieur  Eloin  could  only  point  to 
the  administrador.  "Why  is  your  master  not  present?" 
inquired  General  Almonte.  The  administrador  opened  his 


THE    EMPEROR   MAXIMILIAN 


He  of  the  Debonair  Sceptre  135 

mouth,  and  it  stayed  open.  Colonel  Dupin  had  promised  to 
shoot  him  if  he  breathed  a  word  of  Don  Anastasio  being  a 
prisoner. 

But  someone  whispered  something  to  a  person  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  entourage,  who  passed  it  on  to  the  very  centre 
till  it  came  to  the  ear  of  Col.  Miguel  Lopez  of  Her  Majesty's 
Dragoons.  The  someone  who  initiated  the  message  was 
Don  Tiburcio,  the  watchful  herder  over  one  golden  goose.  As 
a  result,  an  aide  rescued  Murguia  from  the  claws  of  the  Tiger. 

Maximilian  looked  the  weazened  old  man  over  in  disap- 
pointment. Here,  then,  was  the  lord  of  Moctezuma,  an 
hacendado,  and  hence  one  of  the  heavy  timbers  for  his  empire 
building.  Don  Anastasio  scraped  awkwardly  and  craved 
many  pardons  for  not  being  on  hand  to  welcome  His 
Majesty.  Overcoming  a  curious  aversion  to  the  man,  the 
emperor  straightway  invested  him  with  the  newly  created  order 
of  Civil  Merit,  and  Don  Anastasio,  without  a  peon  to  till  his 
fields  or  to  oil  his  machinery,  quaked  under  the  honor  of  a 
copper  medal. 

"And,"  pursued  the  monarch,  "We  find  a  need  of  stout 
officials,  for  We  have  been  grieved  to  learn  of  hacendados  who 
secretly  aid  the  prowling  rebellious  outlaws  that  infest  our 
country. — And  as  We  must  have  a  prefect  in  this  district  of 
an  integrity  like  your  own,  it  pleases  Us,  dear  caballero,  to 
name  you  jefe  politico." 

The  new  jefe's  greenish  eyes  contracted  in  terror.  He 
thought  of  the  brigands  whom  magistrates  were  supposed  to 
discourage,  and  he  tried  to  frame  excuses. 

"Accept,  you  fool,"  someone  whispered.  "Mexicans  can't 
refuse  office — that's  decreed."  It  was  Don  Tiburcio,  his  som- 
brero against  his  breast.  To  Murguia  the  Roman  sword  on 
the  crown  seemed  more  than  ever  emblematic  of  "Woe  to  the 
conquered."  In  a  veritable  panic  he  accepted. 

As  it  was  fitting  that  this  day  of  a  people's  emancipation 


136  The  Missourian 

should  be  commemorated  by  public  praise  to  Almighty  God, 
the  Lesser  Cortege  formed,  and  careful  of  precedence,  went  to 
worship  their  Maker.  The  freedmen  trooped  after,  waving 
jubilee  branches. 

The  little  church  of  the  hacienda  stood  on  a  barren  knoll, 
mid  chaparral  and  graves.  The  curate's  white  adobe  adjoin- 
ing was  the  only  near  habitation.  A  stone  walk  as  wide  as 
the  church  itself  approached  for  a  hundred  yards,  sloping  up 
from  a  pasture  below.  The  one  tower  opened  on  four  sides 
for  the  better  ease  of  the  bell  ringers.  Its  bright  mosaic  peak 
rose  peaceful  and  still  in  the  clear  air. 

The  Emperor  and  suite  arranged  themselves  within,  and  the 
Inditos  gaped  stolidly  outside,  to  hear  the  Te  Deum  for  their 
broken  shackles.  At  the  most  solemn  moment,  the  Grand 
Chaplain  availed  himself  of  his  exclusive  privilege,  which  was 
to  present  the  Gospel  to  the  royal  lips.  Assisting  him  in  the 
general  service  was  the  hacienda  curate.  This  curate,  ob- 
scurely found  in  the  Huasteca  wilds  and  yet  not  a  Mexican, 
was  a  large  sleek  man  whose  paunch  bulged  repulsively  under 
the  priestly  surplice.  His  flabby  jowls  hung  down,  and  gave 
his  head  the  shape  of  a  pea,  in  the  top  of  which  were  the  eyes 
set  close  together.  They  were  restless  fawning  little  eyes  and 
they  roved  constantly.  But  more  than  aught  else,  they  were 
adventurous;  two  bright,  glowing  beads  of  adventure.  From 
the  folds  of  dull  yellow  flesh  they  peered  forth  at  the  august 
worshipers.  They  hovered  first  over  the  Emperor  before  his 
cushioned  prie-dieu.  Then,  in  hungry  search,  they  began 
to  roam.  They  lingered  with  General  Almonte  for  a  moment, 
but  darted  on,  unsatisfied.  They  fluttered  yet  longer  over 
Miguel  Lopez,  the  gorgeously  uniformed  colonel  of  Drag- 
goons,  and  left  him  only  reluctantly.  But  when  they  lighted 
on  Monsieur  Eloin,  they  gleamed.  There  was  no  longer 
uncertainty.  They  laid  bare  the  man  as  the  print  of  a  mass- 
book,  and  found  him  profitable  reading.  After  that,  the 


He  of  the  Debonair  Sceptre  137 

adventurous  orbs  returned  to  their  larger  prey,  the  Emperor,  and 
gorging  themselves,  scintillated  more  adventurously  than  ever. 

And  such  a  feast  as  the  unconscious  Hapsburg  afforded  the 
ghoul  of  a  priest!  It  was  a  loathsome  surgery;  greedy  fingers 
trembling  on  the  knife,  the  victim's  soul  flayed,  each  nerve  of 
a  vanity,  or  tendon  of  an  ambition,  or  full-throbbing  vein  of 
hope,  each  and  all  lifted  one  by  one  from  the  clotted  mass  and 
scrutinized  exultantly.  There  was  not  a  feature  but  held  a 
revelation  as  sure  as  vivisection.  The  high,  broad  forehead 
of  a  gentle  poet  was  often  shaded  by  a  dreamy  melancholy, 
but  never  once  did  it  furrow  in  either  craft  or  cruelty.  In  that 
the  priest  knew  his  man  for  a  devout  mystic,  knew  him  for  a 
child  confidingly  looking  to  a  Destiny  to  inspire  his  every  foot- 
step. Then  there  was  the  beard.  It  was  too  great  a  wealth 
of  whisker,  its  satin,  glossy  flow  of  too  dandified  a  precision. 
The  delicate  finger  tips  stroked  it  softly,  affectionately,  to  the 
left;  then  softly,  affectionately  to  the  right;  and  always  dream- 
ily. But  the  most  shameless  traitor  of  all  was  the  lower  lip. 
It  was  the  Hapsburg  lower  lip,  heavy  and  thick  and  sensuous, 
and  ill-fated.  Hanging  partly  open  under  the  silken  drooping 
moustache,  it  revealed  the  spoiled  child  of  royalty,  who  mis- 
takes obstinacy  for  decision,  and  changes  whims  with  despotic 
petulance.  Maximilian  believed  in  his  star.  But  a  lower  lip 
is  more  potent  than  predestination.  He  need  only  have  leaned 
close  to  his  mirror.  Then  he  might  have  seen  what  the  priest 
saw  so  clearly. 

Maximilian  paused  on  coming  out.  The  freedmen  were  just 
rising  from  their  knees  among  the  thorns  and  stones.  Then  it 
occurred  to  the  liberator  that  their  participation  in  the  rejoicing 
was  not  exactly,  ah — conspicuous.  "Would  you  not  think  it 
well,  father,"  said  he  to  the  Grand  Chaplain,  "that  these  poor 
people  partake  of  the  holy  communion  on  this  day  that  has 
been  so  eventful  for  them  ?  If  you  approve,  let  it  be  ordered 
that " 


138  The  Missourian 

• 

"But  Sire " 

Maximilian  turned  quickly,  a  pleased  smile  on  his  lips. 
The  interruption  came  in  his  own  tongue,  in  German.  And 
he  who  had  spoken  was  a  German.  It  was  the  hacienda 
curate.  His  voice  was  soft,  and  purring  with  deference.  He 
wished  to  say,  with  permission,  that  the  holy  sacrament  for  the 
Inditos  was  out  of  the  question;  scarcely  one  of  them  had 
been  baptized. 

"Not  baptized!"  Maximilian  exclaimed.  "And  this,  is  this 
fulfilling  your  sacred  obligations?" 

The  curate  bowed  his  head.  He  had  found  them  thus, 
when  he  first  came,  a  few  weeks  ago. 

"And  you  came " 

"From  Durango,  sire,  where  as  secretary  I  served  His 
Senoria  Ilustnsimo,  the  Bishop  of  the  state."  But,  as  he 
meekly  explained,  he  had  sought  the  Lord's  service  among  the 
Huastecans.  Pastors  were  said  to  be  needed,  yet  never  had 
he  imagined He  stopped  short,  in  naive  embarrassment. 

Maximilian  appreciated  his  delicacy  in  not  wishing  to  reflect 
on  the  Huasteca  bishop.  But  from  others  he  learned  that 
neither  baptism  nor  other  spiritual  office  had  been  performed 
in  the  community  for  years  and  years,  and  that  the  bishop 
resided  in  the  capitol,  because  among  his  flock  he  had  neither 
comforts  nor  a  befitting  state. 

"But  why,"  Maximilian  demanded  sternly,  "have  you  not 
put  to  use  the  few  weeks  you  have  been  here  ?  " 

The  curate's  small  eyes  leaped  to  adventure.  But  he 
lowered  them  hastily,  and  folded  his  hands  over  his  rounded 
soutane.  He  had  heard  that  His  Majesty  might  come,  he 
said,  and  he  had  presumed  so  far  as  to  hope  that  His  Majesty 
might  deign  to  act  as  godfather  for  the  poor  Indians,  and  so 
he  had  waited. 

Nothing  could  have  pleased  Maximilian  more,  and  he 
looked  at  the  good  priest  with  an  awakening  favor.  "Then 


He  of  the  Debonair  Sceptre  139 

let  it  be  this  afternoon,"  he  commanded.    "I  will  stand  their 
sponsor." 
" Before  God,  who  will  bless  Your  Majesty,"  murmured 

• 

the  priest. 

And  to  be  brief,  let  it  be  recorded  that  they  were  baptized 
by  the  hundred,  with  hurried  pomp — "pompes  a  incendie," 
as  the  godfather  himself  described  it. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

RATHER  A  SMALL  MAN 

"  Besides  the  queene,  he  dearly  loved  a  fair  and  comely  dame." 

— The  Ballad  of  Fair  Rosamond. 

JACQUELINE  was  protesting  to  a  worried  personage  in  Grand 
Uniform.  The  personage  was  the  Cerberus  of  the  Emperor's 
antichamber,  and  he  barred  her  way.  He  was  newly  a  per- 
sonage, and  did  not  know  Jacqueline. 

"But,  Senor  Oficial  de  Ordenes,"  she  insisted,  "don't  you 
see  that  if  I  put  my  name  in  your  old  register  there,  the  man 
will  be  shot  while  your  Dignitaries  are  deciding  to  grant  my 
audience!" 

"Shot?"  vaguely  repeated  the  monarchial  flunkey.  He 
was  a  Mexican,  and  took  his  unfamiliar  responsibilities  seriously. 
He  turned  to  the  Book  of  Court  Etiquette  on  the  centre  table. 

"I  tell  you,"  exclaimed  the  impatient  girl,  "you  won't  find 
any  precedence  for  shooting  in  that  thing.  A  doomed  man 
hasn't  any,  take  the  word  of  the  Dama  Mayor." 

"Dama  Mayor?"  This  was  more  tangible,  and  the  Grand 
Uniform  seized  on  it  gratefully.  "But,"  and  he  quoted  from 
the  Ritual  in  triumph,  "no  Dama  can  present  herself  except 
on  matters  of  service." 

Jacqueline  hedged  guilefully.  "Of  course  not,"  she  agreed, 
"and  it's  precisely  that  why  I  must  see  His  Majesty.  It's 
about,  about  a  piece  of  valencienne  he  wished  me  to  bring  the 
Empress  from  Europe." 

The  Oficial  de  Ordenes  hesitated.  "But  the  man  to  be 
shot?" 

140 


Rather  a  Small  Man  141 

"No  matter,  the  lace  is  my  business." 

With  which  assurance,  the  Grand  Uniform  presumed  to 
announce  la  Senorita  Marquesa  d'Aumerle.  He  reappeared 
at  once  from  the  inner  apartment.  The  Emperor's  order  to 
admit  her  that  instant  rather  disturbed  his  faith  in  the  Ritual 
and  the  leisurely  decorum  it  prescribed. 

Hardly  had  she  stepped  within  the  portieres  than  sojtneone 
caught  her  hand,  and  she  saw  Maximilian  bending  over  it. 
There  was  an  involuntary  warmth  in  his  formal  courtier  grace. 
The  only  other  occupant  of  the  hacienda  sala  was  Bebello, 
the  greyhound.  He  sprang  up  from  a  Hungarian  bear  rug, 
and  frisked  about  her  joyfully.  Her  greeting  to  him  was  equally 
sincere.  Quietly  releasing  her  hand,  she  patted  him  fondly, 
and  cooed  endearing  French.  "My  little  Tou-Tou!  Pauvre 
petite  bete!"  Then,  raising  her  head,  she  seemed  to  perceive 
His  Majesty,  "Isn't  a  bit  older,  is  he,  sire?" 

"Mademoiselle!"  the  man  exclaimed  reproachfully. 

All  the  time  he  was  staring  at  her.  He  stared  at  the  tem- 
pestuous ruffling  of  her  petticoat,  which  had  a  wanton  air 
that  was  most  disturbing,  at  the  rebosa  tossed  rakishly  over 
her  shoulder,  with  the  waistline  beneath  as  languorously  sug- 
gested as  though  she  were  Spanish-born  to  rebosas,  and  lastly, 
at  a  freckle  on  the  very  tip  of  the  creamy  nose.  He  admired 
extravagantly,  but  he  was  no  less  amazed  to  see  her  at  all. 
A  moment  before  he  had  supposed  her  demurely  breaking 
hearts  at  St.  Cloud,  and  Paris  under  her  feet.  He  knew  how 
capable  she  was.  It  had  happened  to  him.  How  he  had 
sought  her,  before  she  left!  And  how  maddening  she  was! 
He  could  recall  nothing  of  encouragment,  and  yet,  blind, 
susceptible  fool,  he  had  never  ceased  to  be  encouraged.  She 
was  a  master  craftsman,  since  her  art  was  hidden.  Then 
she  had  gone  back  to  France;  some  said  because  of  a  note 
from  Napoleon.  But  he  was  of  the  gloomy  opinion  that  she 
had  simply  ceased  to  amuse  herself.  Yet  for  all  that,  here 


142  The  Missourian 

she  was  again,  and  the  astonished  prince  was  eager  to  suffer 
yet  more,  if  it  amused  her  still. 

She  explained  in  a  word,  as  though  their  meeting  in  the 
Huasteca  were  nothing  extraordinary.  Away  from  Mexico, 
she  had  discovered  that  she  wanted  to  return  to  Mexico.  The 
man  left  in  Mexico  would  have  augured  much  from  this,  but 
at  her  rnatter-of-fact  tone  the  glad  light  faded  from  his  eyes. 
Jacqueline,  by  the  way,  was  a  good  manager.  She  reminded 
him  that  she  had  no  mother  nor  father  nor  other  relative  in 
France — which  disposed  of  France.  Then,  though  he  winced, 
she  added  that  the  experiment  of  a  New  World  court  was  a 
novel  spectacle  and  she  enjoyed  it  more  than  the  conventional 
affairs  in  Europe.  Accordingly  she  would  resume  her  place 
as  first  lady  of  honor.  At  Tampico  she  had  wearied  of  ocean 
travel,  and — well,  that  was  all. 

Maximilian  shuddered.  He  imagined  the  terrors  she  must 
have  encountered.  "But,  mademoiselle,  the  bandits?  You 
did  not  come  alone  through  that  terrible  coast  country?" 

"Of  course  not,  sire.  And  that's  why  I  reveal  myself  to 
Your  Majesty.  You  are  to  save  the  person  that  brought 
me." 

"Have  mercy,  mademoiselle.  One  must  leap  too  far  who 
hopes  to  understand  you." 

"But  there's  nothing  to  understand.  Your  Majesty  has 
only  to  keep  Colonel  Dupin  from  shooting  him." 

Maximilian  frowned  heavily  at  the  Frenchman's  name. 

"On  the  porch  just  now,"  Jacqueline  explained,  "when  you 
finished  speaking,  he — the  man  I  am  speaking  of — announced 
that  he  wanted  to  see  you,  but  the  Tiger  drew  his  pistols  to 
shoot  him  if  he  moved." 

"Then  naturally  your  friend  did  not  move?" 

"Your  Majesty  does  not  know  him.  But  he  stopped  for 
me." 

"Were  you  so  afraid  Dupin  would  lose  his  prisoner?" 


Rather  a  Small  Man  143 

"I  had  no  desire  to  see  the  prisoner  commit  suicide.  But  I 
had  to  promise  him  that  he  should  see  Your  Majesty  later." 

"To  beg " 

"  He  is  not  one  to  whine  for  his  life,  sire.  It  is  other  business 
he  means.  But  Your  Majesty  need  not  hear  his  business. 
Your  Majesty  need  only  see  him.  Besides,  it  would  hardly 
be  court  usage,  granting  him  an  audience  so  informally,  would 
it?" 

"N-o,  but  if  I  am  not  to  hear  him,  why  should  I  see 
him?" 

"To  save  his  life,  parbleu!" 

"And  why,  since  he  is  not  concerned  about  that?" 

"But  I  am,  sire,  and  I  count  on  Your  Majesty  to  help  me 
repay  an  obligation." 

Maximilian  was  quick  at  clemency,  but  no  one  likes  to  have 
his  weaknesses  played  upon. 

"Mademoiselle,  who  is  this  man?    What  has  he  done?" 

"An  American,  sire."  Maximilian  frowned.  "A  Con- 
federate, I  believe."  The  frown  vanished.  "And  Colonel 
Dupin  believes  him  to  be  an  accomplice  of  Rodrigo  Gal£n. 
But  he  is  not.  He  fought  Rodrigo  Gal£n,  in — in  my  behalf." 

Maximilian  frowned  again.  "And  so,"  he  said,  trying  to 
do  it  lightly,  "I  have  this  unknown  American  to  thank  for  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you,  mademoiselle?  Otherwise;  I  should 
not  have  known  that  you  were  here,  and " 

He  stopped.  The  gray  eyes  were  laughing  at  him.  Was 
his  jealousy  then  so  apparent?  And  was  it  jealousy?  Evi- 
dently, since  she  had  discovered  it.  And  that  vexed  him, 
because  he  had  supposed  that  he  was  hiding  his  pique  under 
a  great  self  control.  Angrily  he  stepped  toward  her,  but 
the  saucy  eyes  only  grew  merrier.  Then  his  mood  changed. 
He  resolved  grimly  on  open  fighting.  He  meant  to  have 
either  decisive  honors  or  a  decisive  repulse.  For  it  was  his 
tantalizing  doubts  of  her  that  made  her  laugh  at  him.  Yet, 


144  The  Missourian 

when  he  spoke,  he  could  not  help  the  quaver  of  entreaty  in  his 
voice. 

"Mademoiselle,  tell  me,  why  have  you  returned?" 

The  question  was  so  abrupt  and  so  stern,  she  thought  in  a 
flash  that  he  must  have  penetrated  that  Napoleonic  intrigue 
which  had  flung  her  back  upon  the  Western  shores.  But 
Maximilian  believed  he  knew  another  reason  for  her  pallor, 
and  was  encouraged. 

"You  have  already  given  one  answer,  mademoiselle,"  he 
hurried  on,  "and  in  too  great  a  humility  to  dare  hope  it  other- 
wise, I  took  you  at  your  word.  But  now  that  you  mock  me — 
ah,  you  shall  confess,  you  are  back  in  Mexico  on  my  account ! " 

"And  would  that  merit  this  august  displeasure,  sire?" 

Her  words  sprang  from  relief;  he  suspected  nothing  of  her 
secret  mission.  So  the  color  might  flood  to  her  cheeks  again, 
the  mischief  to  her  eyes,  and  with  it  a  most  perilous  daring. 

For  the  Hapsburg,  it  was  coy  surrender. 

"  Mademoiselle — Jacqueline ! " 

Her  name!  The  old  nickname  fondly  given  her  in  child- 
hood, when  she  was  a  torment,  and  an  anarchist  to  all  law, 
and  got  innumerable  scoldings,  and  basked  unperturbed  in 
love  and  adoration !  Her  name,  that  only  Mexico  had  tainted ! 
For  the  first  time  it  passed  his  lips.  But  the  sweet,  quaint 
syllables  had  long  been  in  his  thoughts,  with  something,  too, 
of  the  early  worship  in  their  bestowal. 

Curiously  enough,  a  whimsical  hardy  figure  in  homespun 
gray  took  acute  shape  in  her  mind's  eye.  The  features  were 
oddly  sharp  and  clear.  There  was  even  the  rough  trooper's 
disdain,  which  had  been  in  his  expression  when  first  he  saw 
her,  but  which  she  had  not  noticed  at  the  time.  She  brushed 
the  vision  aside  haughtily,  as  she  would  have  done  had  thl 
man  himself  intruded.  But  she  could  not  stem  so  easily  the 
wave  of  self  disgust  that  swept  her  back  from  this  other  man, 
a  prince  of  Europe.  And  when  she  smothered  that  self- 


Rather  a  Small  Man  145 

abasement,  it  was  a  matter  of  will.  She  recalled  her  interview 
with  the  Sphinx  in  the  Tuileries.  She  recalled  her  country, 
and  the  empire  she  meant  to  win,  a  gift  to  France,  worthy  of 
Napoleon,  of  the  Great  Napoleon.  Then  her  will  became  as  a 
master  outside  of  self,  and  horrid  in  its  iron  cruelty.  She  half 
lifted  her  hand,  and  allowed  the  royal  prince  to  possess  it. 

The  tapestry  behind  them  parted  and  fell.  A  light  step 
crossing  the  room  was  suddenly  arrested,  and  a  low  bewildered 
cry,  half  stifled  in  the  utterance,  arrested  them. 

"Fernando!" 

The  Emperor  straightened  and  wheeled.  Turning  round, 
Jacqueline  placidly  surveyed  a  young  girl,  and  her  brows 
arched.  She  was  not  deceived.  There  was  recognition  in  the 
startled  gaze  of  the  newcomer,  and  of  Maximilian  too.  Only 
for  Jacqueline  did  the  situation  hold  aught  that  was  amusing. 

She  was  Mexican,  a  beautiful  Mexican.  She  might  have  been 
Spanish  too,  or  Moorish  even,  or  perhaps  to  say  that  she  seemed 
a  gentle,  drooping  Egyptian  would  give  the  better  idea  of  her 
dark  loveliness.  Under  her  skin,  under  a  faintest  tinge  of 
brown,  the  rich  blood  drove  its  color  through,  and  blending 
with  that  other  shade,  made  the  cheeks  a  dusky  ruby,  and 
seemingly  softer  and  warmer.  Her  figure  had  prettily  rounded 
curves,  and  her  wine-red  dress  and  the  filmy  black  shawl  over 
her  shoulders  deepened  the  tender,  trusting  depths  of  two 
large  black  eyes.  The  long  lashes  were  wet  with  tears.  She 
looked  once  at  the  calm  French  woman,  as  though  afraid  of 
her,  and  then  at  Maximilian,  and  at  Maximilian  alone.  Her 
gaze  was  vacant,  groping,  non-comprehending,  yet  with  a 
something  of  heartbreak  in  the  beginning  of  comprehension. 

To  the  Hapsburg  came  the  dignity  of  proud  generations, 
exalted  above  mere  human  scrutiny.  He  turned  to  Jacqueline, 
"As  you  see,  mademoiselle,"  he  said  coldly,  "the  stupid  lackeys 
outside  have  admitted  a  second  visitor.  If  you  will  excuse 
us " 


146  The  Missourian 

"But  Fernando " 

This  time  the  girl's  moan  throbbed  with  questioning.  She 
was  as  far  from  understanding  as  before.  But  she  noted 
unconsciously  his  princely  bearing,  his  European  dress,  and 
the  luxury  about  him  in  the  transformed  hacienda  sala.  Her 
eyes,  in  spite  of  grief  and  doubts,  shone  with  timid,  admiring 
love.  "Que  elegante!"  she  breathed.  "Oh,  is  he  not,  truly, 
a  caballero!" 

"Fernando?"  murmured  Jacqueline.  "Bonte*  divine,  this 
is.  bucolic!" 

"But  Fernando,"  the  girl  persisted,  "who  is  there  to — to 
admit  me?  I  only  come  from  my  room."  With  a 
tremulous  gesture  she  indicated  a  door  which  the  im- 
perial scene  .shifters  had  covered  with  portieres.  Maxi- 
milian's surprise  at  the  existence  of  such  a  door  was 
genuine.  "And  I  find,"  she  cried,  "I  find  you  here,  you, 
Fernando  ? " 

"There,  there,  senorita,"  said  Jacqueline  kindly,  "His 
Majesty,  I  imagine,  can  explain " 

"Majesty?"  exclaimed  the  girl.  "Don  Fernando  — 
Majesty?"  Yet  a  third  time  she  repeated  it,  as  by  rote; 
and,  very  slowly,  understanding  grew  into  the  words,  and  with 
understanding,  terror.  The  dark  innocent  eyes  went  appeal- 
ingly  from  one  to  the  other,  and  the  lids  began  to  flutter  wildly 
in  a  kind  of  spasm.  "Majesty?  Majesty?"  Then,  sud- 
denly, she  flung  both  hands  to  her  face,  and  a  piteous  shivering 
racked  her  body. 

"Catch  her,  stupid!"  cried  Jacqueline.  "Don't  you  see, 
the  child  is  fainting!" 

But  it  was  into  Jacqueline's  readier  arms  that  she  fell,  and 
it  was  Jacqueline  who  let  her  slip  gently  into  the  high-back 
chair  that  was  the  imperial  throne  en  voyage,  under  the  claws 
of  the  oaken  Hapsburg  griffins. 

"Get  water!  quick — Majesty,  you — your  cologne  flasks!" 


"MARIA  DE  LA  LUZ" 

;  The  tapestry  behind  them  parted  and  fell ' 


Rather  a  Small  Man  147 

A  mist  was  in  the  prince's  eyes.  "Pobrecita,  pobrecita,"  he 
muttered  helplessly. 

On  Jacqueline  depended  what  was  next  to  be  done.  She 
ran  to  the  door  by  which  the  girl  had  entered.  "See,  there's 
a  corridor  here,"  she  cried,  "and  that  must  be  her  room, 
there  at  the  end,  where  the  door  is  open.  Help  me  carry  her — 
unless,"  and  she  deliberately  punctuated  her  scorn,  "unless 
Your  Majesty  desires  to  call  for  aid?" 

But  His  Majesty  was  so  far  from  desiring  anything  of  the 
kind  that  he  nodded  gratefully,  impatiently.  So  to  her  own 
room  they  bore  her  between  them,  and  laid  her  on  the  bed 
there.  A  pewter  waiter  with  napkin  and  coffee  service  was 
on  a  little  table.  But  the  tiny  loaf  of  pan  de  huevo  lay  un- 
touched. Her  thoughts  rather  than  appetite  had  possessed 
the  girl  when  she  awoke  that  morning,  and  they  had  kept  her 
until  she  emerged  to  stumble  upon  an  emperor  in  her  father's 
house. 

"Out  of  here,"  ordered  Jacqueline.  "I  am  going  to  call 
the  servants."  She  had  no  sympathy  for  his  wistful,  forlorn 
gazing. 

"It's  the  end,  the  end  of  my  idyl,"  he  murmured. 

"Are  you   going?" 

He  came  nearer  instead,  and  looked  in  profound  melancholy 
at  the  girl.  The  ruby  flush  was  no  longer  there,  and  the  face 
was  olive  and  waxen.  The  lips  were  parted,  baring  teeth 
that  were  marvelously  white.  The  shawl  had  fallen  to  the 
floor,  and  an  ivory  cross  on  a  chain  about  her  neck  caught  his 
eye.  He  turned  it  over  in  his  hand,  and  on  the  gold,  where  the 
chain  was  attached,  he  saw  an  inscription. 

"Maria  de  la  Luz,"  he  read.  "So,  that  is  her  name. 
But  I  never  asked  it.  Identity  would  have  blighted  the 
idyl." 

"Sire,"  Jacqueline  protested  angrily,  "this  poor  child  needs 
help.  I  shall " 


148  The  Missourian 

"One  moment,  mademoiselle,  I  wish  to  say  that  I  still  do 
not  know  who  she  is." 

Then,  with  a  last  sorrowful  look,  he  turned  back  to  his 
apartment  of  state. 

Jacqueline's  lip  curled  as  she  watched  him  go. 

"And  you  wish  me  to  find  out  who  she  is  ?  "  she  apostrophized 
his  back.  "But  I  shall  not  tell  you.  And  she — no,  she  is  not 
the  kind  that  would,  knowing  who  you  are." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

LITTLE  MONARCHS,  BIG  MISTAKES 

"How  now,  good  fellow!  would st  thou  speak  with  us?" 
"  Yea,  forsooth,  an  your  mistership  be  emperial." 

— Titus  Andronicus. 

FOR  the  moment,  Colonel  Dupin  had  established  head- 
quarters in  the  granary,  which  was  a  long,  low  adobe  among 
the  stables,  with  a  pasture  between  it  and  the  House.  The 
pasture  opened  on  the  highway  through  a  wide  gap  in  the  ha- 
cienda wall,  and  the  coaches  and  steeds  of  the  imperial  party 
which  had  passed  in  that  morning  gave  the  old  cow  lot  a  gala 
air.  The  colonel  was  seated  before  a  box,  improvised  into 
a  desk,  and  his  rusty  jacketed  Cossacks  lounged  everywhere. 
Tiburcio  and  other  scouts  were  reporting  on  the  dead  and 
wounded  of  yesterday's  raid.  A  maimed  enemy  brought  a 
chuckle  deep  in  the  Tiger's  throat,  but  any  mishap  to  one  of 
his  own  darlings  got  the  recognition  of  a  low-growled  oath. 
He  was  busy  over  this  inventory  of  profit  and  loss  when  Jacque- 
line appeared  with  the  Emperor. 

Dupin  arose  and  saluted  after  the  grim  manner  of  an  old 
soldier.  The  half-dozen  of  obsequious  courtiers  he  did  not 
see  at  all,  but  to  Jacqueline  he  bent  from  the  waist  with  a 
duellist's  punctilio.  His  countrywoman  was  the  one  adversary 
whom  he  never  thought  of  cursing. 

There  was  an  opening  innuendo.  "No,  Colonel  Dupin," 
Maximilian  reproved  him  sternly,  "I  have  not  come  to  inter- 
fere with  justice.  I  merely  desire  to  see  what  prisoners  you 
have  here." 

149 


j^o  The  Missourian 

Driscoll  and  Murguia  were  brought  in.  Maximilian  stared 
dumfounded  at  his  new  magistrate  in  the  role  of  criminal. 
Don  Anastasio  looked  apologetic.  They  had  locked  him  up 
in  his  own  stable,  bronze  medal  and  all.  Dupin  explained. 
This  Murguia,  like  many  another  hacendado,  had  long  been 
suspected  of  aiding  the  guerrillas,  and  yesterday  morning  he 
had  actually  set  him,  Dupin,  on  a  false  trail.  The  Contras 
were  tracking  one  of  Rodrigo  Galan's  accomplices  in  the 
abduction  of  Mademoiselle  d'Aumerle.  The  accomplice  was 
the  other  prisoner,  the  American,  whom  they  had  found  at 
last  taking  refuge  at  Murguia's  own  hacienda.  Here  he  had 
had  the  effrontery  to  welcome  them  as  mademoiselle's  rightful 
escort,  had  even  seemed  surprised  when  a  dozen  Contras 
pounced  upon  him  from  behind  and  disarmed  him.  Dupin 
added  that  mademoiselle  herself  was  deceived  by  the  Ameri- 
can's cunning,  and  he  did  not  doubt  but  that  she  still  persisted 
in  his  innocence.  He  might  speak  further  of  the  fellow's 
part  in  the  ambush  and  murder  of  Captain  Maurel  near  Tam- 
pico,  but  he  confessed  that  that  required  further  investigation. 

No  one  could  say  that  Maximilian  had  so  much  as  listened. 
Such  tangles  had  long  since  become  irksome,  though  he  never 
ceased  plunging  into  the  mesh.  To  unravel  details,  and 
incidentally  confuse  them  more,  was  a  notorious  mania  with 
the  poet-prince.  But  his  thoughts  now  were  all  for  a  girl 
who  had  fainted.  Murguia  he  would  leave  to  a  court  martial. 
If  guilty,  the  medal  should  be  torn  from  his  breast.  Don 
Anastasio 's  terrors,  however,  ran  on  the  other  penalties  of 
court  martial. 

"Now  you,"  Maximilian  turned  to  the  American,  "I  under- 
stand that  you  wish  to  see  me.  But  you  must  know  that  law 
prevails  in  Mexico  at  last,  and  that  even  the  Emperor  may 
not  keep  a  man  from  trial." 

Driscoll's  chin  lifted  eagerly.  "Certainly  not,  but  my 
business  with  you,  sir " 


Little  Monarchs,  Big  Mistakes  151 

"Not  'sir,'"  whispered  Jacqueline.  "You  must  call  him 
'sire.'"  Little  she  cared  for  etiquette,  but  she  did  not  propose 
that  Driscoll  should  broach  his  errand. 

Maximilian  overheard  and  smiled.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "one 
tiny  letter  added,  and  you  change  a  man  into  a  sovereign." 

Now  Jacqueline,  for  her  purposes,  had  thought  to  disconcert 
the  man  unused  to  courts.  But  it  struck  her  at  once  that 
nothing  of  the  kind  would  happen.  His  easy  naturalness 
was  too  much  a  part  of  him,  was  the  man  himself.  And  she 
was  glad  of  it.  She  was  glad  of  the  something  distinguished 
which  his  earnestness  gave  to  the  clean-cut  stamp  of  jaw  and 
forehead.  He  had  stopped  and  looked  at  them  inquiringly, 
as  an  eager  speaker  will  when  interrupted.  Then  his  brown 
eyes  deepened,  and  there  was  a  lugging  at  the  corners  of  his 
mouth.  He  seemed  to  comprehend.  If  this  was  their  humor, 
he  would  play  to  it.  A  diplomat  must  be  all  things  to  the 
people  he  is  after. 

"'Sire?'  W'y,"  and  his  drawl  was  exquisite,  "that's  what 
we  call  the  daddy  of  a  horse." 

Jacqueline  turned  quickly,  clapping  her  hand  over  her  mouth. 
Maximilian  was  always  uneasy  when  Jacqueline  did  that. 

"To  be  sure,"  he  observed  affably,  "our  American  friend 
is  not  so  far  wrong.  Listen,  am  I  not  the  father  of  my  people  ?  " 

The  entourage  buzzed  admiringly  at  the  imperial  cleverness; 
all  except  Jacqueline,  who  now  that  she  should  laugh  and 
relieve  the  situation,  obstinately  pulled  a  long,  blank  face. 

Maximilian's  tone  changed.  He  meant  to  wound  now, 
and  did.  "So,"  he  added,  with  chilling  stress,  "it's  'sire,' 
if  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  remember." 

Driscoll  flushed  as  though  struck.  He  became  aware  that  it 
was  all  some  patronizing  rebuke. 

"There  is  one,"  he  answered  gently,  "who  taught  me 
manners  at  her  knee,  or  tried  to,  and  she  never  hurt  a  mortal 
human  being  by  a  word  in  her  life,  but  that,  that,  sir,  seems 


152  The  Missourian 

to  be  where  you  have  missed  it.  Now  look  here,"  he  went  on, 
kindling  in  spite  of  himself,  "I  respect  any  man  who  has 
grounds — discoverable  grounds — for  respecting  himself,  and 
if  you  are  a  man,  then  'sir'  won't  overtop  you  any." 

Colonel  Lopez  of  the  Dragoons  nudged  him  anxiously. 
"Don't  say  'you';  say  'Your  Majesty.'" 

"Better  let  him  alone,"  Maximilian  interposed  wearily. 
"He  recognizes  in  me  a  man,  and — it's  not  unpleasant.  But 
which,"  he  added,  "gives  me  leave  to  hope  that  as  a  man 
himself  he  will  not  cringe  before  the  drum-head." 

"May  I,"  said  Driscoll  quietly,  "have  one  minute  with  you 
alone?  It's  not  about  myself,  I  promise  you  that.  But  for 
you,  sir,  it's  of  the  very  greatest  importance." 

Instantly  all  stirred  with  Curiosity,  except  Maximilian.  All 
there  were  keenly  affected  by  the  stranger's  mysterious  business 
with  the  Emperor,  except  the  Emperor  himself.  And  each 
man's  wits  were  straightway  alert,  according  to  the  hates  and 
ambitions  of  each.  Even  Miguel  Lopez,  dense  of  understand- 
ing, had  his  suspicions.  Murguia's  yellow  features  darkened 
malevolently.  The  hacienda  priest  whispered  to  M.  £loin,  and 
M.  £loin,  brushing  the  man  of  God  aside  as  though  he  had  been 
thinking  of  the  very  same  thing  himself,  tried  to  get  a  word  with 
Maximilian.  But  Jacqueline  spoke  first  to  the  Emperor.  She 
knew  the  susceptibility  of  the  royal  ear.  Maximilian  nodded 
at  what  she  said,  and  filoin  bit  his  lip.  Maximilian  glanced 
at  the  American's  clothes.  Homespun  did  not  correspond 
with  pressing  business  of  state,  to  his  mind. 

"My  good  man,"  he  said,  caressing  his  beard,  "it's  not 
regular,  you  know.  Another  time,  perhaps,  when  you  can 
have  yourself  inscribed  by  Our  Grand  Chamberlain  and  when 
your  application  for  an  audience " 

"But  if  these  senores  shoot  me  before  then?" 

Maximilian  shrugged  his  shoulders.  In  any  case,  the 
Ritual  would  suffer  no  outrage. 


Little  Monarchs,  Big  Mistakes  153 

"But  I  tell  you,"  cried  the  exasperated  Missourian,  "this 
thing  is  serious.  And  it  can't  wait  either,  not  if  it's  to  help  you 
any.  I  may  be  too  late  now.  I  don't  know  what's  happened 
since  I  started  down  here  three  weeks  ago.  Richmond  was 
in  danger  then.  And  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia — General 
Lee " 

"Have  surrendered,"  calmly  interposed  the  Emperor. 

Driscoll  stiffened  as  he  stood,  his  lips  parted  as  his  last 
word  had  left  them.  He  wondered  why  these  foreign,  unsym- 
pathetic beings  of  Austria  and  France  and  Belgium  and 
Germany  and  Mexico  looked  so  blurred  to  him.  He  never 
imagined  that  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"It  is  really  true,"  continued  Maximilian,  addressing  them 
all.  "A  courier  brought  me  the  news  this  morning.  Yes,  m} 
friends,  the  North  is  free  at  last  to  attack  our  Empire.  But," 
he  added  blandly,  "let  us  not  fear,  not  while  we  are  sustained 
by  the  unconquered  legions  of  France." 

"How  he  remembers  us  now!"  thought  Jacqueline. 

She  thought  too  of  him  who  had  sent  the  legions.  The 
entire  fabric  of  Napoleon's  dream  of  Mexican  empire  was 
builded  on  the  dismemberment  of  the  American  Union.  But, 
as  the  Southerners  began  so  well  by  themselves,  Napoleon 
had  left  them  to  do  his  work  alone.  He  just  failed  of 
genius. 

"Oh,  mon  petit,  bien  petit  Napoleon,"  she  cried  in  her 
soul,  "how  terribly  you  have  miscalculated!" 

The  room  had  filled  with  murmurs,  with  awed  whispering, 
with  frightened  questioning  looks  at  one's  neighbor,  with 
ambitions  and  hates  gone  panic-stricken.  Driscoll  came 
forward.  The  fellow  of  homespun  held  the  Empire  in  his 
hand,  if  they  but  knew  it.  "Now  let  me  deliver  my  message," 
he  said  earnestly.  "And,  afterward,  on  with  the  drum- 
head, I'll  not  complain." 

"There,  there,"  spoke  the  unseeing  monarch,  though  affected 


i$4  The  Missourian 

by  the  dignity  of  sorrow,  "you  shall  have  no  cause.  I  came 
here,  meaning  to  pardon." 

"Pardon?"  came  the  Tiger's  growl.  "Your  Majesty  saves 
so  many  enemies,  does  he  fear  that  soon  he  will  have  none 
left?" 

"Perhaps,  Colonel  Dupin,  since  my  imperial  brother, 
Napoleon,  sends  me  so  efficient  a  bloodhound.  But  I  thought 
the  prisoners  were  already  tried  and  condemned.  That  must 
come  first,  of  course.  Yet  We  are  constrained  to  find  another 
judge,  one  without  preconceived  notions  of  guilt,  to  hold 
the  court  martial.  Ah  yes,  as  Monsieur  FJoin  here  suggests, 
1  name  Colonel  Lopez. — Colonel  Lopez,  you  will  stay  behind 
with  a  company  of  your  own  men.  Finish  the  trial  to-night, 
if  you  can,  and  overtake  me  before  I  reach  the  city. — Colonel 
Dupin,  I  have  to  request  yourself  and  men  as  escort,  to  replace 
the  Dragoons  left  with  Colonel  Lopez.  And  you,  Mademoiselle 
d'Aumerle,  shall  have  a  carriage.  We  start  this  afternoon. 
You  will  be  ready,  mademoiselle?" 

"Is  Your  Majesty  quite  resolved,"  Jacqueline  asked  in 
French,  "that  the  American  must  be  tried?  He  can  easily  be 
found  guilty,  I  warn  Your  Majesty." 

"And  is  that  not  reason  enough?" 

"Reason  enough  that  he  should  not  be  tried,  since  he  is  not 
guilty.  But  perhaps  Your  Majesty  has  thought  of  sending 
him  under  guard  to  the  frontier,  back  to  his  own  country, 
where  he  would  not  longer  be  an  annoyance?" 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  returned  the  Emperor,  "it  seems 
that  you  expect  me  to  blot  out  the  processes  of  law  simply 
because  even  I  cannot  make  them  infallible.  But  you  do 
not  answer  my  question.  I  offer  you  protection  to  the  City?" 

"He  must  stand  trial  then?" 

"Yes — but  will  you  be  ready  to  start  this  afternoon?" 

"Your  Majesty  should  know  that  I  cannot  accept." 

"Does  this  trial  interest  you  so  much,  mademoiselle?" 


Little  Monarchs,  Big  Mistakes  155 

"Thanking  Your  Majesty,"  said  Jacqueline  coldly,  "I 
should  rather  not  accompany  him." 

Maximilian  swung  on  his  heel  and  called  Lopez  aside. 
"Mi  coronel,"  he  said,  "when  you  follow  to-morrow,  you  will 
offer  to  bring  the  Senorita  d'Aumerle,  if  she  desires  it. — And 
Lopez,  you  remember  the  young  Mexican  girl  we  used  to  meet 
near  here,  during  the  last  few  evenings  ? " 

"When  you  and  I,  sire,  would  ride  over  from  Las  Palmas 
incognito  ?  " 

"Yes.  She  was  able  to — to  tell  me  much  about  the  peon 
life,  and  I  should  like  to  reward  her  in — in  some  way.  Do 
you  know,  Miguel,  I  suspect  she  lives  on  this  very  ranch.  It 
was  at  the  church  here  that  we  would  meet  her,  you  know? 
And  now,  since  I  must  leave,  I  wish  you  to  find  her.  Induce 
her  to  come  with  mademoiselle  to  the  City  under  your  escort. 
Assure  her  that  she  shall  have  an  honored  place  at  court. — 
Jove,  there's  my  new  order  of  San  Carlos  for  women!  She 
shall  have  that  for — for  aiding  my  researches  among  the  peons. 
Now,  Miguel  mio,  do  your  best!" 

With  which  words  Maximilian  turned  back  alone,  and  as  he 
went,  he  thought  how  as  a  simple  man  he  had  won  a  maiden's 
heart.  He  had  been  learning  that  a  prince  may  miss  one  or 
two  very  dear  things  in  life.  "It's  ended,  the  little  ranchero 
idyl,"  he  murmured.  "But  there's  been  no  harm.  She 
shall  not  regret  it." 


CHAPTER  XIX 
A  TARTAR  AND  A  TARTAR 

"But  all's  brave  that  youth  mounts  and  folly  guides." 

— As  Tou  Like  It. 

As  Maximilian  crossed  the  pasture,  he  suddenly  had  to 
jump  aside  with  considerable  sprightliness.  A  brace  of  horse- 
men came  swerving  through  the  gateway  from  the  highroad  and 
tore  down  upon  him  as  though  the  Day  of  Judgment  galloped 
behind.  They  were  abreast,  ten  feet  apart,  but  the  oddest 
thing  was  a  lariat  that  dangled  between  them,  from  saddle- 
horn  to  saddle-horn. 

The  thunder  of  hoofs  brought  Dragoons  and  Cossacks  and 
Dignitaries,  and  emptied  the  granary.  Even  insane  horsemen 
could  see  that  the  Empire  was  encamped  over  that  cow  lot. 
And  as  nearer  they  rushed,  the  two  maniacs  seemed  to  recognize 
the  fact.  One  was  straightway  more  anxious  to  arrive;  a 
directly  opposite  effect  was  apparent  in  the  other.  And 
there  was  the  rope  between  them,  from  saddle-horn  to  saddle- 
horn.  Their  opinions  on  destination,  unexpectedly  diverging, 
promised  something.  And  since  one  wanted  to  stop  and  the 
other  to  hasten,  the  something  was  not  long  in  happening. 

One  of  the  horsemen — he  wore  a  sombrero — leaned  back 
frantically.  The  other — who  wore  a  battered  soldier  cap — 
passed  ahead  like  the  wind.  The  lariat  twanged,  but  held. 
Sombrero's  horse  got  its  feet  planted.  The  horse  of  Soldier 
Cap  slowed  to  a  standstill,  and  panted.  Sombrero  flung  out 
his  pistol,  Soldier  Cap  his.  They  aimed  at  each  other,  the 
triggers  snapped,  no  report.  They  looked  amazed,  embar- 

156 


A  Tartar  and  a  Tartar  157 

rassed;  and  tried  again.  Same  result.  "For  Dios!"  "Sacre 
nom!"  They  hurled  the  pistols,  each  at  the  other's  head. 
Both  ducked.  Sombrero  wheeled,  drove  home  the  spurs,  and 
headed  for  retreat.  Soldier  Cap  and  horse  braced  themselves 
against  the  shock.  The  spectators,  running  nearer,  now  per- 
ceived that  the  lariat  was  tied  round  each  man's  waist  as  well  as 
wrapped  over  his  pommel.  Soldier  Cap  weathered  the  jolt,  next 
plunged  suddenly  closer,  and  in  the  instant  of  the  slack,  un- 
wound the  rope  from  his  saddle  and  leaped  to  the  ground.  In 
two  leaps  more  he  had  Sombrero  about  the  neck.  They  fell 
together,  rolling  and  fighting,  while  Sombrero's  horse  reared  and 
plowed  the  soil  with  them.  Dragoons  and  Cossacks  heaped 
themselves  on  all  three.  It  was  quite  an  energetic  mystery 
altogether. 

Under  the  soldier  cap,  under  dust  and  blood  and  scratches, 
Jacqueline  caught  glimpses  of  a  happy  face. 

"Oh  la-la,  it's— it's  Michel!" 

"Rodrigo  Gal£n!"  roared  the  Tiger,  in  his  turn  recognizing 
Sombrero.  "Here,  up  with  him!  Six  of  you,  quick  there,  in 
line,  shoot  him!" 

It  was  near  the  sweetest  moment  of  the  old  warrior's  life. 

"One  moment,  colonel!"  someone  spoke  quietly.  "Is  it  a 
Huastecan  custom,  by  the  way,  to  shoot  a  cavalier  the  instant 
he — ah — dismounts  ?  " 

"But  this  scoundrel  is  Rodrigo  Galdn,  Your  Majesty. 
And  that  black  horse,  sacre  tonnerre,  that  is  Maurel's  horse. 
Captain  Maurel,  sire,  whom  he  murdered!" 

Don  Rodrigo  straightened  pompously.  "Your  Most  Op- 
portune Majesty — "  he  began. 

"Also,  Colonel  Dupin,"  Maximilian  continued,  "he  way- 
laid the  Belgian  ambassador,  sent  by  Leopold,  brother  to 
Our  August  Spouse." 

"The  more  reason  to  shoot  him,  pardi!" 

"Without  doubt,  monsieur.     But  his  execution  must  have 


158  The  Missourian 

e"clat.  Europe  must  know  that  Mexican  outlaws  do  not  go 
unpunished. — Colonel  Lopez,  you  will  take  charge  of  Our 
prisoner.  Guard  him  well,  and  bring  him  with  you  to  the  City. 
He  shall  be  tried  there,  with  every  ceremony." 

Colonel  Dupin,  that  policeman  of  the  backwoods  forced  upon 
Mexico  by  Napoleon,  could  only  grind  his  teeth,  which  he  did. 

"Now  then,"  said  His  Majesty,  "let  Us  see  this  brigand- 
catcher  who  excels  the  redoubtable  Contra  Guerrillas. — As  I 
live,  the  young  man  is  a  Chasseur  d'Afrique!  Step  nearer, 
sir,  and  tell  Us  who  you  are." 

"Michel  Ney,  at  Your  Majesty's  service." 

"The  Prince  of  Moskowa!"  exclaimed  the  Emperor.  In 
his  court,  he  was  grateful  for  even  a  Napoleonic  prince. 

"Sergeant,  Your  Majesty."  It  looked  as  though  Ney  were 
hinting  to  be  made  something  else. 

"I  see,"  said  Maximilian.  "And  so  Our  Empire  of  romance 
is  to  hold  a  baton  for  another  of  the  family  of  Ney.  But  to 
start  more  modestly,  how  would  a  lieutenancy  suit,  do  you 
think?" 

"Your  pardon,  sire,  but  I  report  to  His  Excellency,  Marshal 
Bazaine." 

Maximilian's  white  brow  clouded.  The  French  occupation 
was  ever  a  thorn  in  his  side.  He  could  never  quite  be  Emperor 
in  fact.  He  could  not  even  promote  a  likely  young  man. 
He  had  to  "recommend"  to  one  Bazaine,  who  had  carried  a 
knapsack. . 

"Quite  so,"  he  answered  coldly.  "I  shall  inform  Our  dear 
Marshal  how  well  you  deserve." 

"The  fact  is,  Your  Majesty,"  said  Ney  in  some  confusion, 
"I  did  not — exactly — capture  him.  It  was,  uh,  sort  of 
mutual." 

Everybody  stared  curiously.  There  was  the  rope,  the  un- 
loaded pistols.  It  was  a  queer  puzzle.  How  did  it  happen  ? 
Ney  began  with  an  apology.  Would  Mademoiselle  d'Aumerle 


A  Tartar  and  a  Tartar  159 

forgive  him?  But  he  had  worried  though!  He  should  not 
have  left  her,  day  before  yesterday! 

"Because  of  a  greater  attraction?"  the  young  woman 
suggested. 

Ney  demurred  so  earnestly  that  Jacqueline  laughed  outright. 
"Don't  make  it  worse,  Michel,"  said  she.  "I  know  how  you 
regretted  the  death  of  the  terrible  Rodrigo.  Then  you  learned 
that  he  was  alive.  Oh  no,  I  couldn't  have  held  you. — But  go 
on.  Did  he  prove  interesting?" 

The  Frenchman  told  his  story.  It  appeared  that,  on  desert- 
ing mademoiselle  two  days  before,  he  went  at  the  best  speed 
of  his  horse  up  the  ravine  she  had  so  graciously  indicated. 
He  hoped  to  overtake  the  fugitive  bandit,  and  after  an  hour,  at 
a  turn  in  the  arroyo,  did  meet  him,  face  to  face.  Both  were 
equally  astounded.  Rodrigo  was  retracing  his  steps,  having 
been  blocked  by  a  dried  waterfall.  Either  man  drew  and 
covered  the  other.  The  Mexican  did  not  fire.  Seeing  Ney, 
he  supposed  the  Contras  at  no  great  distance,  and  a  shot 
would  bring  them  on  his  heels.  But  after  a  time  the  thing 
commmenced  to  grow  ridiculous,  and  Ney  laughed. 

"Monsieur  Rodrigue,"  he  said,  "I  hope  you  will  come  along 
quietly." 

Fra  Diavolo  mistook  the  Gallic  humor  for  an 
assurance  of  armed  backing  near  at  hand.  "Where 
to?"  he  asked. 

"The  devil  take  me  if  /  know!    Where  would  you  suggest  ?" 

It  dawned  then  on  the  puzzled  brigand  that  the  other  knew 
nothing  of  the  country,  and  accordingly  they  struck  up  an 
armistice;  which,  for  the  rest,  the  alert  revolver  of  each  made 
imperative.  Their  protocol's  chief  clause  required  the  prisoner 
to  conduct  his  captor  to  some  neutral  point.  Rodrigo  suggested 
Anastasio  Murguia's  ranch,  and  Ney  agreed.  But  as  to  what 
might  happen  on  arriving,  they  left  in  blank.  Michel  had  a 
duel  in  mind,  if  honest  seconds  were  to  be  had.  The  craftier 


i6o  The  Missourian 

Rodrigo  hoped  to  find  some  of  his  own  men  lurking  about  the 
hacienda. 

A  cessation  of  hostile  moves  was  further  stipulated,  though 
treachery  of  course  warranted  the  instant  drawing  of  weapons. 
Should  the  prisoner  try  to  betray  the  captor  to  guerrillas, 
this  was  to  constitute  treachery.  Ney  for  his  part  insisted  on 
his  rights  as  captor.  That  is,  he  could  call  for  help  if  he  got 
the  chance.  Rodrigo  assented  willingly.  He  knew  the 
neighborhood.  He  would  avoid  the  Cossacks,  and  the  French- 
man might  shout  to  his  heart's  ease.  To  do  him  justice,  the 
outlaw  had  no  desire  to  kill  Ney,  even  if  Ney  gave  him  leave. 
A  duke  and  prince  in  one  was  too  valuable.  A  pretty  ransom 
loomed  brightly.  Ney  suspected  as  much,  but  not  being 
ingenuous  enough  to  obviate  the  risks,  took  a  huge  delight  in 
them. 

Conforming  to  the  terms  of  the  truce,  each  man,  simul- 
taneously, put  his  gun  in  his  holster.  Then,  good  company 
enough  one  for  the  other,  though  with  eyes  ever  on  the  watch, 
they  proceeded  along  tortuous  bridle  paths  until  twilight, 
meeting  no  one.  They  camped  in  the  same  forest  which  that 
same  moment  held  Murguia,  Driscoll,  and  the  two  girls. 
They  tethered  their  horses  together  and  made  a  bed  of  leaves 
for  themselves.  Each  laid  his  pistol  a  comfortable  distance 
away,  so  that  if  either  tried  to  arm  himself  while  the  other 
slept,  there  would  be  much  snapping  of  twigs  under  his  feet. 
Again  simultaneously,  they  sat  down  and  talked,  and  smoked 
cigarettes  in  lieu  of  supper.  Ney  progressed  in  his  Spanish 
that  evening.  Fra  Diavolo  wished  to  impress  on  the  com- 
panionable Frenchman  that  he,  Rodrigo  Galan,  was  a  more 
terrible  person  than  Colonel  Dupin.  He  seemed  envious, 
even  of  the  compliment  implied  in  the  Tiger's  nickname. 

During  a  pause  the  brigand  said,  "Now  don't  jump,  cabal- 
lero,  because  I'm  only  getting  out  my  flask." 

"The  beautiful  idea!"  returned  Ney.     "I'll  do  the  same." 


A  Tartar  and  a  Tartar  161 

But  each  stopped  with  the  liquor  at  his  mouth.  It  was  con- 
solation for  lack  of  food,  but  if  one  refrained  and  the  other 
partook — well,  there  would  be  a  light  sleeper  and  a  heavy 
sleeper.  With  the  tempting  fumes  in  their  nostrils,  they 
waited,  each  for  the  other,  to  quaff  first.  And  neither  did. 
Finally  Rodrigo  proposed  that  they  equalize  the  perils  of  indul- 
gence. Accordingly  each  lowered  the  contents  of  his  flask  by 
three  swallows,  after  which  they  compared  the  extent  of  the 
ebb  tide  in  either  bottle. 

"But,  voyons,"  Ney  objected,  "you  haven't  taken  as  much 
as  I  have!" 

Rodrigo  admitted  the  impeachment,  and  amiably  took 
another  draught.  But  the  swallow  proved  too  large,  and  Ney 
in  his  turn  tried  to  balance  that  one,  only  to  fail  likewise.  This 
entailed  another  effort  from  Rodrigo,  which  resulted  in  still 
another  exaggeration. 

"Now  you've  had  more  than  I  have,"  Michel  complained, 
growing  vague  on  the  real  point  at  issue. 

"Bien,  senor,  suppose  you  try  a  little  of  this.  It's  Catalan, 
genuine,  too,  smuggled  at  Tampico." 

"Mine's  cognac,"  said  Ney.     "Have  some?" 

They  exchanged  flasks,  and  that  night  in  the  forest  their 
snores  were  discordant  and  loud.  Ney  half  awoke  once,  and 
remembered  that  he  seemed  to  have  heard  the  tramp  of  many 
horses.  Toward  morning,  when  it  was  not  yet  light,  he  was 
aroused  for  good  by  a  savage  tightening  around  his  waist  and 
a  tremendous  pull.  He  sat  up,  and  heard  his  prisoner  scuffling 
and  swearing  near  him. 

"You've  tied  me,  you  sneaking  animal  without  shamel" 

"It's  you  that's  tied  me,  tete  de  voleur!" 

But  as  Rodrigo  wrested  in  the  dark,  Ney  found  that  the 
brigand's  stumblings  corresponded  with  the  tightening  about 
himself.  He  clutched  at  his  waist,  and  discovered  a  rope. 

Both  men  groped  vengefully  forward  with  the  line,  and 


i6z  The  Missourian 

lurched  into  one  another's  arms.  Each  had  thought  to  come 
on  a  tree,  only  to  discover  himself  tied  to  the  other.  In  the 
first  start  of  suspicion,  and  in  no  good  humor  from  splitting 
headaches,  one  reached  for  his  knife,  the  other  for  his  sabre. 
But  the  knife  was  gone,  the  sabre  was  gone.  Forthwith  they 
grappled  and  strained  and  breathed  by  jerks  and  tumbled  and 
rolled  and  wound  themselves  in  the  lariat,  until  at  last  they  lay 
exhausted  on  their  backs  and  blinked  up  at  the  beautiful 
innocent  morn  peeping  through  the  trees. 

"Now  don't  you  untie  yourself  till  I  get  untied,"  ordered 
Ney. 

"Or  you  yourself,"  retorted  the  other. 

"Let  us  both  untie  at  the  same  time." 

"  But  one  might  finish  first,"  objected  Rodrigo.  The  brigand 
had  grown  amiable  again.  He  saw  advantages  in  the  rope. 
It  was  well  to  have  his  prospective  ransom  never  more  than  a 
few  feet  away. 

They  discussed  the  problem  at  length,  but  were  not  equal  to 
it.  So  the  modus  vivendi  was  stretched  a  rope's  length,  and 
the  treachery  clause  expanded  to  include  any  untying  or  at- 
tempted untying  before  their  arrival  at  Murguia's.  Scrupul- 
ously simultaneous,  they  arose,  found  their  pistols,  and  mounted 
their  horses.  To  guard  against  any  sudden  varying  in  rapidity 
of  travel  and  its  consequences,  each  wrapped  the  lariat  once 
about  his  saddle-horn.  Where  necessary,  the  brigand  rode  in 
front,  since  Ney  insisted  that  the  other  way  would  reverse  their 
r61es  of  prisoner  and  captor.  Rodrigo  got  some  tortillas 
from  a  charcoal  burner,  and  they  lunched  and  rested  within 
the  forest's  edge  till  dark.  But  they  traveled  all  that  night 
in  the  open  country,  and  approached  Murguia's  before  noon 
of  the  next  day.  Hoping  to  find  friends  about  the  hacienda's 
stables,  Rodrigo  suggested  that  they  race  up  the  highway  into 
the  pasture.  He  was  thinking  that  then  the  Frenchmen  might 
be  overpowered  the  more  easily.  Ney  fell  into  the  trap.  He 


A  Tartar  and  a  Tartar  163 

accepted  the  challenge  and  was  keen  for  the  sport.  Thus  it 
happened  that  they  all  but  ran  down  the  Emperor  of  Mexico 
himself,  and  instead  of  guerrillas,  Rodrigo  saw  Cossacks  and 
Dragoons.  But  the  mystery  of  the  rope,  added  to  that  of  the 
unloaded  pistols,  rested  unexplained. 

Jacqueline  was  delighted.  "If  it  were  just  conventional 
heroism,"  she  exclaimed,  "one  might  talk  of  lieutenancies. 
But  sire,  this " 

"Never  fear,"  replied  Maximilian.  "I  cannot  make  him 
captain,  but  he  shall  have  his  reward. — Monsieur  le  Prince, 
I  will  leave  you  a  half  company  of  my  Austrians,  if,  though  a 
Chasseur,  you  will  deign  to  command  them.  In  a  word,  I 
desire  you  to  have  the  honor  of  escorting  mademoiselle  to  the 
City." 

"And  I  thank  you,  sire.  Parbleu,  the  sergeant  is  happier 
with  such  an  order  than — than  the  captain  without  it." 

"Michel,"  cried  Jacqueline,  "and  where  in  the  world  now 
did  you  get  that?" 

"Why — out  of  my  own  head.    Really,  mademoiselle." 


CHAPTER  XX 
IN  THE  WAKE  OF  PRINCELY  CAVALCADES 

".     .     .     Now  swell  out,  and  with  stiff  necks 
Pass  on,  ye  sons  of  Eve!  vale  not  your  looks, 
Lest  they  descry  the  evil  of  your  path." 

— Dante. 

THE  Grand  Equerry  was  again  the  Dignitary  of  the  hour. 
He  held  the  Emperor's  stirrup,  while  the  Emperor,  fittingly 
attired,  swung  gracefully  astride  a  curvetting  charger.  Behind 
was  his  coach,  ready  for  him  when  he  should  tire  of  the  saddle. 
It  was  already  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  he  meant  to  travel  all 
night.  Flatterers  begged  him  to  consider  the  importance  of 
his  health,  which  but  made  him  unyielding.  Some  slight 
martyrdom  for  his  country  appealed  to  Maximilian.  No,  he 
said,  grave  affairs  might  be  afoot  since  the  Confederacy's  sur- 
render. The  capital  needed  his  presence,  and  he  reminded 
them  that  the  State  came  first,  as  always. 

The  retinue  climbed  into  carriages.  The  escort,  Dragoons, 
Austrians  and  Contra  Guerrillas,  formed  in  hollow  square 
about  their  prince.  Colonel  Dupin  scowled  because  he  was 
going.  Colonel  Lopez,  when  unobserved,  scowled  because 
he  was  left  behind.  And  Monsieur  £loin,  at  the  Emperor's 
side,  thought  well  of  himself  in  substituting  for  a  rival  favorite 
one  so  distant  from  favoritism  as  the  Tiger.  The  Dragoons  and 
Austrians  who  were  to  remain  presented  arms  on  the  hacienda 
porch,  and  Lopez  gave  them  the  cue  for  a  parting  viva.  The 
emancipated  peons,  still  wet  from  spiritual  grace,  swelled  the  din 
gratefully  and  stridently,  lured  to  it  by  their  thoughtful  pastor, 
the  hacienda  curate. 

164 


In  the  Wake  of  Princely  Cavalcades          165 

But  Maximilian  still  lingered.  He  looked  from  window  to 
window  under  the  colonnade,  and  seemed  expectant.  But 
Lopez  signaled  to  the  buglers,  and  the  trumpet  call  and  the 
redoubled  huzzas  of  a  people  thrilled  him  out  of  his  melancholy. 
With  a  sigh  he  gave  over  his  private  loves  and  poesy.  He 
breathed  deep  and  his  eyes  flashed.  And  as  the  grand  monarch 
and  good,  he  departed  with  the  acclaim  of  posterity  in  his  ears, 
conscious  that  the  superb  figure  he  made  was  for  History's 
contemplation. 

At  this  time  the  Marquise  d'Aumerle  was  half  way  up  a 
ladder  in  the  garden.  She  was  picking  the  fragrant  china 
blossoms,  tossing  them  down  to  Berthe's  apron,  and  humming 
"Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine"  in  blissful  indifference  to 
many  things,  to  princes  among  them. 

Nor  was  the  other  girl  behind  the  hacienda  shutters.  Yet 
she,  at  least,  saw  him  ride  away.  High  up  in  the  chapel  tower, 
between  the  bell  and  the  masonry,  crouched  a  sobbing  little 
figure.  She  gazed  and  gazed,  with  straining  eyes.  Over 
there  below,  in  front  of  her  father's  house,  were  glittering 
swords  and  dazzling  helmets,  and  the  sheen  of  gilded  es- 
cutcheons on  coach  doors.  And  as  the  beautiful  pageant 
wound  its  way  along  the  highroad,  she  watched  in  fawn-like 
curiosity.  The  sobs  were  only  involuntary.  She  was  not  think- 
ing, then,  that  this  was  matter  for  grief.  Her  dark  eyes,  that 
had  been  weeping,  and  were  now  so  dry,  held  to  a  certain  one 
among  the  cavaliers,  to  the  very  tall  and  splendid  one  with  the 
slender  waist,  and  they  kept  him  jealously  fixed  among  the 
others,  and  were  ever  more  impatient  of  the  blurring  distance. 
But  when  finally  he  was  lost  for  an  instant  in  the  general  bright 
haze  of  the  company,  and  she  could  not  be  quite  sure  after  that 
which  was  he,  then  indeed  the  eyelids  fluttered  in  a  kind  of 
despair.  Yet  only  after  the  last  carriage  had  vanished  under  the 
giant  banana  leaves  of  the  hill  beyond,  did  the  tears  come  and 
tremble  upon  her  lashes. 


166  The  Missourian 

"He  is  married,  the  Emperor,"  she  told  herself,  as  though 
the  fact  were  that  second  written  across  the  burning  sky.  At 
last,  full,  grim  comprehension  was  hers. 

The  stones  of  the  tower  glowed  like  a  brazier  in  the  sun,  but 
the  girl,  with  her  head  on  her  arm  against  the  parapet,  shivered 
as  with  cold ;  and  a  numbness  at  her  heart  grew  heavier  and 
heavier,  like  weighted  ice. 

Below  her  the  barren  knoll,  where  an  hour  before  swarthy 
stolid  hundreds  had  crowded  awaiting  baptism,  was  lonely  as 
the  grave.  The  peons  were  dispersing  to  their  village  down  by 
the  river  junction,  or  to  their  huts  near  the  hacienda  store,  and 
on  the  air  floated  the  falsetto  nasal  of  their  holiday  songs, 
breaking  ludicrously  above  the  mumbling  bass  of  loosely 
strung  harps.  Nearer  by,  the  only  life  was  an  old  man  with  a 
fife  and  a  boy  with  a  drum,  who  marched  round  and  round  the 
chapel,  playing  monotonously,  while  a  second  urchin  every 
five  minutes  touched  off  a  small  cannon  at  the  door.  They 
did  these  things  with  solemn  earnestness.  It  was  to  achieve 
an  end,  for  San  Felipe's  day  would  come  soon,  and  meantime 
each  and  every  lurking  devil  had  to  be  driven  off  the  sacred 
precincts.  But  there  was  one  hideous  fiend  who  grinned,  and 
pinched,  and  shrieked.  His  abode  was  the  girl's  heart,  and 
he  shrieked  to  her  gleefully,  that  she  could  never,  never  in 
life,  wed  the  man  she  loved.  The  fife  and  drum  and  the 
stupid  little  cannon  simply  made  him  the  merrier. 

The  imps  were  left  in  peace  for  the  night,  and  all  about  the 
chapel  was  dark  and  silent  and  desolate.  But  a  man  was 
working  stealthily  at  one  of  the  rear  windows.  It  was  a  square, 
barred  window,  near  the  ground.  The  man  chipped  away 
at  the  granite  sill  with  short,  quick  blows.  The  butt  of  his 
chisel  was  padded  in  flannel,  so  that  even  a  chuckling  that 
escaped  him  now  and  again  made  more  sound  than  the  steel. 
Soon  he  dropped  his  tools,  and  wrapping  either  hand  around  a 


In  the  Wake  of  Princely  Cavalcades          167 

window  bar,  he  braced  both  feet  together  against  the  wall,  and 
pulled.  The  two  bars  scraped  slowly  toward  him  across  the 
stone.  Then,  with  a  sharp,  downward  jerk  he  tore  them  out. 
Quickly  he  climbed  inside  and  cut  the  ropes  of  a  man  who  lay 
bound  on  the  floor.  Both  men  emerged  noiselessly  through 
the  window. 

"Have  a  care  how  you  step,"  whispered  the  rescuer.  "Your 
faithful  guards  are  busy  sleeping  and  don't  want  any  dis- 
turbance." 

"That  candle-stinking  sacristy!"  grumbled  the  rescued. 

"But  it's  the  only  stone  calaboose  on  the  ranch.  In  fact,  / 
suggested  it,  since  Don  Rodrigo  should  be  kept  tight  and  safe. 
That's  why  Dupin  left  me  behind."  The  rescuer  chuckled 
as  before.  "Careful,  hombre,  there's  a  guard  there,  lying 
right  in  front  of  you!" 

Rodrigo  made  out  the  prostrate  form,  and  lifted  a  boot  heel 
over  the  upturned  face.  But  his  liberator  jerked  him  aside. 

"Fool,  you'll  wake  the  fat  padre,  and  he  doesn't  like  my 
jests,  says  they're  inspired  of  the  Evil  One." 

"Thinking  of  the  Bishop  of  Sonora's  waiting  maid,  was  he?" 

"Well,  what  of  it?    Didn't  he  elope  here  with  her?" 

"And  you,  Don  Tiburcio?" 

"Of  course;  she  naturally  wanted  to  correct  her  first  bad 
taste." 

"By  running  away  with  you?    If  you  call  that  good   taste 


"I  call  that  a  good  joke  on  the  padrecito." 

Having  by  this  time  come  safely  to  the  front  of  the  church, 
Rodrigo  was  for  making  certain  his  escape  at  once.  But 
Tiburcio  interposed.  "There's  some  talk  still  due  between 
you  and  me,"  he  said.  "Sit  down,  here  in  the  doorway." 

"Well?"  said  the  brigand  uneasily. 

"Well?"  repeated  his  jocular  friend. 

"Well,  there  isn't  even  a  moon  and  we  can't  deal  monte, 


1 68  The  Missourian 

as  if  that  weren't  the  same  as  giving  you  what  you  want, 
anyway." 

"I  risk  my  hide  saving  you  for  money,  then?"  Don  Tibur- 
cio's  tone  was  aggrieved. 

"Oh  no,  for  friendship,"  the  sardonic  Rodrigo  corrected 
himself,  "and  I  think  as  much  of  you  in  my  turn,  amigo  mio. 
Not  half  an  hour  ago  I  was  wrapped  in  anxiety,  imagining  you 
trying  to  collect  blackmail,  and  I  not  near  to  keep  my  patriots 
from  your  throat.  Oh,  the  sorrow  of  it!" 

"God  be  praised  that  a  dear  friend  came  and  eased  your 
worries!  But  you  are  not  an  ingrate.  Since  the  Confederate 
Gringo  took  all  my  money  the  other  morning " 

"Tiburcio,  on  oath,  I  haven't  had  money  either,  not  since 
our  last  game  at  cards.  There  was  Murguia,  I  know,  but  I 
let  him  off  for  bringing  me  that  French  girl.  She  was  good 
for  a  big  ransom,  only  your  same  Gringo — curse  the  intruder! 
If  ever  the  Imperialists  catch  him,  and  Murguia  is  there  to 
testify  against  him " 

Tiburcio  moved  nearer  on  the  church  step.  "And 
then?" 

"That's  our  secret,  Murguia's  and  mine." 

"But  Rodrigo,  he  is  caught.  They  are  trying  him  and 
Murguia  both  this  very  minute.  And  do  you  know  what  for  ? 
For  being  your  accomplices." 

The  outlaw  started  exultantly.  "Then,  if  you  want  him 
shot- " 

"Well? — Oh  don't  be  afraid,  maybe  I  can  help." 

"Were  you  with  Captain  Maurel  when  we  ambushed  them 
near  Tampico?" 

"I  can't  remember,"  said  Tiburcio  tentatively. 

"If  you  will  hurry  down  to  this  court  martial,  perhaps  you 
will  remember  better.  Go,  and  I'll  leave  you." 

"Not  quite  so  fast,  Rodrigo.  You  forget  that  your  devoted 
rescuer  is  penniless." 


In  the  Wake  of  Princely  Cavalcades          169 

"So  am  I,  I  tell  you.  We'll  both  have  to  go  to  work,  Don 
Tiburcio." 

"What's  the  lay?  Tell  me."  The  humorist's  tone  was 
unmistakable. 

Rodrigo  looked  about  him  in  the  dark.  "Listen,"  he  whis- 
pered, "there's  a  bullion  convoy  out  of  San  Luis  before  long, 
but — you  shall  hear  no  more  unless  it  is  agreed  that  I  am  to 
meet  them  first." 

"Of  course,  hombre!  How  else  could  I  threaten  to  expose 
them  for  contributing  to  the  rebels?" 

"Bien,  it's  next  week.  You  will  meet  them  this  side  of 
Valles,  some  time  Thursday  or  Friday. — Now  I'm  off. 
Adios." 

"Stay.  You'll  find  your  horse  down  by  the  river.  The 
administrador  is  waiting  with  it.  And  Rodrigo,  don't  you  want 
your  pistol?  Be  more  careful  another  time,  and  keep  it 
loaded." 

Something  in  his  tone  nettled  the  brigand.  "What  do  you 
mean?  Give  me  my  pistol." 

Tiburcio  pointed  it  at  him  instead.  "When  you  cool  a 
little,  yes.  But  it  takes  a  good  marksman  to  hit  a  Frenchman 
with  an  empty  pistol — especially  when  one  wakes  up  and  finds 
himself  tied." 

Rodrigo  stiffened.     This  was  menacing  to  his  dignity. 

"Both  lassoed,"  Tiburcio  went  on,  "and  no  telling  which 
was  heifer  and  which  vaquero,  stampeding  down  on  poor  Max. 
— Ai  de  mi,  I  never  thought  it  could  be  so  funny!" 

"Give  me  my  pistol!" 

"Slumbering  like  two  babes  in  the  wood,  and  your  sweet 
innocent  breaths  perfuming  the  woody  forest.  I'd  have 
covered  you'with  leaves,  like  the  little  robins,  only " 

"Was  it  you  tied  us,  you " 

"Just  like  two  babes,  but,"  and  Tiburcio  pointed  his  thumb 
to  his  mouth  and  shook  his  head  sorrowfully,  "that's  bad,  very 


1 70  The  Missourian 

bad.  Why  didn't  you  leave  me  some?  Of  the  cognac, 
especially  ?  " 

"If  you  don't  explain " 

"Softly  there,  amigo.     Yes,  I  tied  you." 

"Another  of  your  jokes " 

"Inspired  of  the  Evil  One?  Oh  no,  it  was — precaution. 
Yes,  that  was  it,  come  to  think;  just  precaution.  You  see,  I 
and  Dupin  had  scattered  your  guerrillas,  and  I  was  scouting 
ahead,  to  stir  up  any  ambush  waiting  for  us — which  I  did  later, 
when  we  chased  them,  and  burned  Culebra.  But  going  along, 

I  heard  snoring,  and  found  you  two,  like  two Now  sit 

still!" 

"Why  didn't  you  wake  me?  Then  we  could  have  roped 
the  Frenchman." 

"And  have  him  identify  me  after  we'd  gotten  the  ransom? 
Oh,  no,  I'm  a  loyal  Imperialist.  Now  listen  a  minute,  will 
you  ? — Our  Contras  were  following  me  not  a  half  mile  behind. 
That  meant  I  had  to  work  quick.  You  see,  I  wanted  to  find 
you  both  there  when  I  could  come  back  alone.  And  mean- 
time, I  didn't  want  you  to  hurt  each  other.  If  either  got 
killed,  there'd  be  no  ransom.  So  I  took  your  knife  and  his 
sabre.  Then  I  tied  you  both  with  my  lariat.  I  was  going  to 
get  your  lariat  too,  and  tether  the  pair  of  you  to  a  tree,  hoping 
you'd  hold  each  other  there  till  I  got  back.  You  would  do  it, 
for  I  meant  to  pin  a  note  on  your  sleeve,  explaining.  But  just 
that  minute  the  Frenchman  stirred,  for  the  Cossacks  were 
getting  into  his  ears,  so  I  had  to  run  back  and  turn  them  into 
another  path." 

"So  long  as  it  wasn't  any  of  your  infernal  farces?" 

"Well,  it  was  worth  a  ransom,  the  way  it  turned  out. — Sit 
still,  will  you?  You  know  I  take  you  too  seriously  ever  to 
think  of  any  joke  with  you!  Here's  your  artillery  and  cutlery. 
Quick  now,  clear  out!" 

Both  rose  to  go,  each  to  his  respective  deviltry,  but  not  six 


In  the  Wake  of  Princely  Cavalcades          171 

steps  ahead  in  the  black  night  Tiburcio  stumbled  over  a  soft, 
inert  mass.  He  recovered  himself,  half  cursing,  half  laughing. 

"One  of  your  guards,  Rodrigo,"  he  muttered.  "He  must 
have  got  this  far  before  the  drug  worked  into  his  vitals." 

"Your  mescal  probably  killed  him,"  said  Rodrigo  indiffer- 
ently. "But  a  little  knife  slit  will  look  more  plausible  in  the 
morning,  for  you  it  will." 

Getting  to  his  knees  on  the  stone  walk  the  outlaw  groped 
over  the  body  for  a  place  to  strike,  holding  his  knife  ready. 
But  all  at  once  he  stopped  and  got  up  hastily,  without  a  word. 
He  only  rubbed  his  left  hand  mechanically  on  his  jacket. 

"Well,  what  ails  you?"  asked  Tiburcio. 

Rodrigo  gave  a  short,  apologetic  laugh.  "  It — it's  a  woman ! " 
He  quit  rubbing  his  hand,  seeming  to  realize.  "There's 
blood,"  he  added. 

"Here,"  said  Tiburcio,  "you  keep  back,  and  run  if  anybody 
comes.  I'm  going  to  strike  a  match." 

By  the  flare  they  saw  that  it  was  a  girl  and  that  her  head 
was  crushed.  Kneeling  on  either  side,  they  peered  ques- 
tioningly,  horrified,  at  each  other.  Their  great  sombreros 
almost  touched.  Their  hard  faces  were  yellow  in  the  flicker- 
ing light  between,  and  the  face  looking  up  with  its  quiet  eyes 
and  dark  purplish  cleft  in  the  brow  was  white,  white  like  milk. 
With  one  accord  the  two  men  turned  and  gazed  upward  at  the 
tower,  whose  black  outline  lost  itself  far  above  in  the  blacker 
shadows  of  the  universe.  They  understood. 

Tiburcio  shrugged  his  shoulders,  a  silent  comment  on  the 
tragedy  from  its  beginning  to  this,  its  end.  He  threw  the  match 
away  and  arose,  but  Rodrigo  still  knelt,  leaning  over  her, 
holding  the  poor  battered  head  in  his  hands,  half  lifting  it,  and 
trying  to  look  again  into  those  eyes  through  the  darkness.  He 
would  touch  the  matted  hair,  as  if  to  caress,  not  knowing  what 
he  did,  and  each  time  he  would  jerk  back  his  hand  at  the 
uncanny,  sticky  feeling.  Roving  thus,  his  fingers  touched  an 


172  The  Missourian 

ivory  cross,  and  closed  over  it.  With  no  present  consciousness 
of  his  act,  he  placed  the  symbol  in  his  jacket,  over  his  breast. 

Tiburcio  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  "I'll  go  now,  and 
bring  her  father,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  returned  the  other  vaguely,  stumbling  to  his  feet. 

"It's  going  to  kill  the  old  man,"  murmured  Tiburcio,  "or — 
God,  if  it  should  not  kill  him!  He  is  a-  coward,  but  once  he 
slapped  you,  Rodrigo,  for  so  much  as  looking  at  her.  And 
now,  the  Virgin  help — may  the  Virgin  help  whoever's  con- 
cerned in  this! — But  here,  you  must  go,  do  you  hear?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  go,  go!" 

"Yes,"  said  Rodrigo  again,  moving  slowly  away. 

"By  the  river,  remember.     You'll  find  your  horse  there." 

"Captain  Maurel's,  the  fine  black  one?" 

"Yes,  I  slipped  it  out  of  the  stables  for  you." 

"The  fine  black  one?" 

"Yes,  yes,  hombre!" 

"And — and  she  never — she  never  saw — how  magnifico  I  look 
on — on  that  fine  black  horse." 

He  was  still  muttering  as  he  reeled  and  staggered  down  the 
hill. 

When  he  was  gone,  and  no  alarm  of  sentinels  rang  out, 
Tiburcio  took  off  his  serape  and  laid  it  over  the  dark  blot  on 
the  stones.  Then  he  too  stole  away,  to  tell  her  father. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
THE  RED  MONGREL 

"Be  this  the  whetstone  of  your  sword;  let  grief 
Convert  to  anger;  blunt  not  the  heart,  enrage  it." 

— Macbeth. 

"WHERE,"  inquired  Din  Driscoll,  with  a  benevolent  interest 
in  their  doing  the  thing  right,  "is  the  judge  advocate?" 

Colonel  Miguel  Lopez  resented  what  he  took  for  a  patronizing 
concern.  It  festered  his  complacency,  for  his  was  the  code  of 
the  bowed  neck  to  those  above  and  the  boot-tip  for  those  below. 
Luckily  for  him,  he  did  not  strike  the  helpless  prisoner.  He 
turned  to  his  judge's  bench  instead,  which  was  none  other  than 
the  frayed  and  stately  sofa  of  honor  from  the  hacienda  sala, 
deemed  requisite  to  his  dignity.  The  satin  upholstery  con- 
trasted grotesquely  with  the  adobe  walls.  Pungent  tallow 
dips  lighted  the  granary  to  a  dull  yellow,  and  mid  the  sluggish 
tobacco  clouds  were  a  shrinking  prisoner  in  clerical  black,  and 
the  mildly  interested  prisoner  in  gray,  and  red  uniforms  sur- 
rounding. 

Lopez  flung  his  sword  across  the  empty  box  that  was  to 
serve  as  desk,  and  filled  the  crimson  seat  with  pompous 
menace.  Lopez  was  a  Mexican,  but  did  not  look  it.  He 
had  red  hair  and  a  florid  skin,  and  he  was  large,  with  great 
feet  and  coarse  hands.  Yet  the  high  cheek  bones  of  an  Indian 
were  his.  The  contrast  of  coloring  and  features  unpleasantly 
suggested  a  mongrel  breed.  The  eyes  had  red  lids,  out  of  which 
the  lashes  struck  like  rusted  needles,  and  the  eyes  themselves, 
of  a  faded  blue,  seemed  to  fawn  an  excuse  for  Nature's  malad- 

173 


174  The  Missourian 

justing.  But  he  had  a  goodly  frame  on  which  to  hang  the  livery 
of  a  king's  guardsman.  And  as  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor  ticketed  his  breast,  he  must  have  been  a  goodly  man  too, 
and  his  Maker's  insignia  only  a  libel.  Once  Maximilian  had 
said,  "What,  Bebello,  and  art  thou  a  better  judge  of  men 
than  I,  thy  master  and  the  master  of  men  ?  "  For  it  seemed  that 
Bebello,  the  simple  hound,  had  read  Nature's  voucher  instead  of 
Napoleon's,  and  being  thus  deceived,  would  ever  snarl  at  the 
Colonel  of  Dragoons.  Maximilian  of  course  knew  better. 
What  looked  like  toadying  was  only  profound  deference  for 
himself.  The  royal  favorite  could  discriminate.  He  could 
also  be  the  thick-headed,  intolerable  martinet.  The  sandy 
lashes  bristled  as  the  American  inquired  a  second  time  if  he 
were  to  have  counsel. 

"Being  president  of  this  court,"  Lopez  announced,  "/ 
am  judge  advocate." 

In  the  tone  of  congratulation  Driscoll  blandly  said,  "Well, 
then,  I  challenge  the  president." 

"Challenge?" 

"  Certainly,  Your  Honor.  It's  my  right,  either  on  the  ground 
of  inexperience,  malice,  or — but  I  reckon  the  first  two  will  do." 

"This  is  insolence!"  cried  the  president,  and  glaring  angrily, 
he  maintained  that  it  was  a  regular  court  martial  for  the  field, 
and  that  as  he  was  the  ranking  officer  at  hand, there  could  be  no 
appeal  beyond  himself." 

"A  regular  drum-head,"  Driscoll  observed.  "Well,  let  it 
go  at  that.  I'm  in  a  hurry." 

Lopez  called  a  lieutenant  of  Austrian  cavalry  to  his  right 
upon  the  sofa,  and  the  Dragoon  color  sergeant  to  his  left,  and 
the  three  of  them  sat  thenceforth  in  judgment.  The  charges 
were  read,  and  next  a  deposition,  gathered  that  day  from  Michel 
Ney.  Therein  appeared  the  American,  reinforcing  Rodrigo 
Gal£n  at  Tampico,  and  in  so  far  aiding  the  abduction  of 
Mademoiselle  d'Aumerle. 


The  Red  Mongrel  175 

"The  complicity  is  evident,"  stated  Lopez,  and  his 
colleagues,  blinking  at  the  candles  on.  the  box,  nodded 
wisely. 

"It's  straight  so  far,"  Driscoll  agreed,  "but  the  story  goes 
a  little  further.  Does  the  ma'am'selle  herself  happen  to  have 
left  any  deposition?" 

She  had,  admitted  the  president,  but  it  merely  corroborated 
the  foregoing.  Driscoll,  in  sole  charge  of  his  own  defence, 
insisted  that  her  deposition  be  read,  but  Lopez  would  permit 
no  such  waste  of  time.  He  was  brooding  on  Monsieur  £loin 
usurping  his  own  place  near  the  Emperor,  and  he  wanted  to 
finish  the  present  business  so  as  to  overtake  them  both. 

Dupin's  written  evidence  provided  the  rest  of  the  abduction 
story,  seemingly,  and  there  remained  only  the  other  charge, 
that  of  assisting  at  the  ambush  of  the  murdered  Captain 
Maurel.  For  this  there  was  no  evidence,  and  the  accused 
himself  was  examined. 

"Your  name?"  asked  the  court. 

"Driscoll." 

"Your  full  name,  hombre?" 

"John  Dinwiddie  Driscoll,  Your  Honor." 

"Din — whatever  it  is — that's  not  a  Christian  name?" 

"It  was,  when  I  got  it.     Maybe  I've  paganized  it  since." 

"Devil  take  you,  this  is  solemn!" 

"Yes,  this  is  solemn." 

Lopez  cracked  his  long  nails  irritably  against  each  other. 

"You  came  here  via  Tampico,"  he  began  anew.  "What 
days  were  you  in  Tampico?" 

"From  about  the  twenty-third  or  twenty-fourth,  till  we  left 
a  few  days  ago." 

All  three  judges  bent  over  a  memorandum  which  the  presi- 
dent pointed  out  among  his  notes.  Captain  Maurel  was 
killed  about  April  26th. 

"How  did  you  occupy  yourself  while  in  Tampico?" 


!76  The  Missourian 

"Mostly  trying  to  pursuade  Murgie  here  that  it  was  his 
move." 

"But  your  horse  needed  exercise.  Did  you  at  any  time  ride 
across  the  river?" 

"I  didn't  notice.     Have  you  anyone  who  saw  me  cross?" 

"Goot!"  blurted  out  the  Austrian  who  was  one  of  the  judges, 
so  suddenly  that  everybody  half  jumped.  "Ya,  das  iss  die 
cosa,  sabe!  Who  has  him  seen  cross?" 

The  court  floundered.  The  witness  demanded  by  the 
accused  was  lacking.  Murguia,  a  restless,  huddled  form  on  a 
straw-bottomed  chair,  was  watching  hungrily  every  step  in  the 
examination.  Now  he  shifted  excitedly,  and  his  sharp  jaws 
worked  with  a  grinding  motion.  Then  his  voice  came,  a 
raucous  outburst. 

"Search  him,  Your  Mercy!" 

Lopez  browbeat  the  meddler,  and — took  his  advice.  Dris- 
coll  submitted  tolerantly  to  their  fumbling  over  him,  and  all 
the  while  Murguia  looked  on  as  a  famished  dog,  especially 
when  they  pulled  out  the  whiskey  flask.  But  when  they 
tossed  the  thing  aside,  he  sank  deep  into  his  black  coat  and 
gave  vent  to  mumblings. 

"Of  course  we  find  nothing,"  Lopez  complained,  "since 
his  accomplice  recommended  the  search." 

It  seemed,  too,  that  the  state's  case  must  fall. 

"The  Captain  Maurel  charge  cannot  hold,"  announced 
the  court. 

"Ya,  goot — mucha  bueno!"  exclaimed  the  Austrian  with 
enthusiasm,  while  the  color  sergeant,  who  had  a  red  nose, 
wet  his  lips  hopefully.  He  believed  that  an  acquitted  outlaw, 
if  a  gentleman,  would  stand  a  bottle. 

"And  as  to  the  first  charge,"  continued  the  president,  "here 
is  the  deposition  of  the  Senorita  d'Aumerle,  which  I  have  held 
till  now  for  this  purpose.  Read  it,  and  you  will  note  that 
though  the  marquesa  bears  out  the  Senor  Ney,  she  further 


The  Red  Mongrel  177 

testifies  to  the  prisoner  having  later  saved  her  from  this  very 
Rodrigo  Galan  at  peril  to  himself.  Bien,  senores,  have  you 
any  further  questions?" 

The  Austrian  crinkled  his  brow,  and  after  a  momentous 
pause,  shook  his  head  till  his  cheeks  rattled.  The  Dragoon 
promptly  replied,  "No,  mi  coronel."  Then  the  three  with- 
drew, and  when  they  came  back,  the  Dragoon  wiping  his  lips, 
they  informed  the  accused  that  he  was  not  guilty. 

"Which  isn't  news,"  said  Driscoll  as  he  thanked  them. 

Murguia's  turn  came  next.  The  proof  of  the  old  man's 
guilt  blossomed  almost  of  itself.  Jacqueline,  to  clear  her  pro- 
tector, had  been  forced  to  depose  how  Murguia  had  willingly 
betrayed  her  into  Rodrigo's  hands.  But  she  described  the  old 
man's  reluctance.  He  would  have  saved  her,  except  for  his 
terror  of  the  outlaw.  The  sole  case  for  the  defence  was 
Murguia's  character  for  stinginess;  such  a  miser  could  not  be 
accused  of  aiding  the  guerrillas.  But  this  very  point  seemed 
to  heighten  Lopez's  prejudice  against  him.  Driscoll,  being 
held  to  testify,  only  talked  sociably,  and  told  nothing,  and 
when  under  the  quizzing  he  finally  lost  patience,  he  said,  "Oh, 
let  him  go!  What's  the  use?" 

But  they  were  so  far  from  any  such  thing  that  they  con- 
demned him  to  be  shot. 

Then  a  voice  was  heard  at  the  door.  The  sentinel  there 
stumbled  back,  and  Don  Tiburcio  brushed  by  him  into  the 
room. 

"  Old  man,"  he  called,  "come  with  me!    Your  daughter " 

Murguia  started  up,  weakly  swaying.  The  senile  eyeballs, 
so  lately  parched  by  fear,  swam  in  a  moisture  not  of  avarice. 
Someone  was  speaking  to  him  of  his  daughter.  He  had  not 
seen  her  yet.  They  would  not  let  him.  And  now  he  must 
think  of  her  in  this  new  connection,  which  was  his  death. 
And  her  misery  to  learn  it,  and  her  misery,  afterward!  On 
the  morrow  they  would  be  taking  him  to  the  capital,  his 


178  The  Missourian 

sentence  would  be  confirmed,  he  would  be  shot.  Nothing  of 
this  he  doubted.  And  he  would  never  see  her  again. 

Murguia  stretched  out  his  arms  toward  the  president  of  the 
court,  "You  will  let  me  go  to  her,  senor?  Your  Mercy  will 
let  me  go  to  her?"  He  murmured  her  name  over  and  over, 
"Maria  de  la  Luz!  Maria — Luzita  mia!"  until  the  words 
became  a  kind  of  crooning.  Then  he  would  break  forth 
again,  entreating,  commanding,  "Your  Mercy  will  let  me  see 
her?  Senor,  you  will  let  me  see  her!" 

At  the  first  note  of  intrusion  Lopez  had  brought  the  pommel 
of  his  sword  down  upon  the  box  in  front  of  him.  But  the  sylla- 
bles of  the  girl's  name  seemed  to  get  into  his  memory,  and 
he  began  to  stare  with  a  puzzled  frown  at  the  half-crazed  old 
man.  Lifting  his  eyes,  he  met  Tiburcio's,  and  Tiburcio  him- 
self nodded  in  some  deep  hidden  significance.  Lopez  straight- 
ened abruptly,  as  at  an  astounding  revelation. 

"Tell  me,  Senor  Murguia,"  he  said,  "your  daughter — Yes, 
yes,  man,  you  shall  see  her! — But  listen,  what  is  she  like? 
Has  she  large  black  eyes?  Does  she  wear  red  sometimes? 
Come,  senor,  answer!" 

The  father  gazed,  wonderingly,  jealously.  How  should  an 
elegant  officer  from  the  City  and  the  Court  know  aught  of 
'  Maria  de  la  Luz  ? 

Tiburcio  crept  behind  the  sofa,,  and  bending  to  Lopez's 
ear,  he  whispered,  "Si,  si,  mi  coronel,  she  is  the  one  you  have 
in  mind,  and  she  is  his  daughter." 

Lopez  swung  round  and  searched  the  blackmailer's  face. 
"And  now " 

"You  will  let  him  come,"  said  Tiburcio.  "But  bring  two 
guards.  And  have  four  others  with — well,  with  a  stretcher." 

Again  Lopez  searched  the  dark  crescent  that  was  Tiburcio's 
eye,  and  again  Tiburcio  nodded  with  deep  significance. 
"Bring  him,"  he  repeated,  "but  tell  him  nothing.  Seeing 
will  be  enough." 


The  Red  Mongrel  179 

Murguia  went,  unknowing.  He  would  see  her,  thanks  to 
some  freakish  kindness  in  Don  Tiburcio.  He  was  torn 
between  the  joy  of  the  meeting  and  the  sharp  grief  of  the  parting 
that  must  follow.  At  the  time  he  never  noticed  that  they  led 
him  up  the  chapel  walk  instead  of  toward  the  hacienda  house. 
Tiburcio  was  ahead  with  a  lantern,  but  when  near  the  top  of 
the  hill  he  turned  back  to  them,  yet  not  before  the  expectant 
Lopez  had  seen  a  black  something  on  the  pavement  under  the 
swinging  light. 

"You  first,  mi  coronel,"  said  Tiburcio. 

"I,  you  mean!"  cried  Murguia,  "I,  sefior!" 

"But  we  wish  to  see  first  if  she  is  here,"  said  Lopez.  "Don 
Tiburcio  thought  she  might  be  at  vespers." 

"Vespers?  There  are  no  vespers  to-night.  Yet  we  come 
here!  Why?  Why  do  we  come  here?" 

Tiburcio  motioned  to  the  guards.  "Hold  him  until  we  re- 
turn," he  ordered. 

A  Dragoon  reached  out  a  hand  indifferently  to  Murguia's 
collar,  and  that  second  the  old  man's  ten  fingers  were  at  his 
throat.  They  overpowered  him  at  last,  but  they  would  have 
fared  better  with  a  wildcat. 

Tiburcio  and  Lopez  went  alone.  They  stopped  before  the 
covered  thing  near  the  church  door. 

"So,"  mused  the  colonel,  "she  ended  it  this  way." 

"From  the  tower,"  Tiburcio  grimly  added. 

"His " 

"Well,  say  it.     You  mean  His  Majesty?" 

"His  Majesty  need  know  nothing  of  the — of  the  finale." 

"Who  is  there  to  tell  him,  por  Dios  ?    I  won't.    You  won't." 

"But  you  forget  a  third,  Don  Tiburcio.  I  mean  the  man 
who  was  with  you  several  evenings  ago,  when  you " 

"When  I  was  carrying  off  the  padre's  sweetheart?" 

"When  somehow  you  two  happened  in  this  desolate  neigh- 
borhood. Since  you  took  his  name  out  of  my  mouth  just 


lgo  The  Missourian 

now,  you  must  have  recognized  that  it  was  His  Majesty  whom 
you  saw  talking  to  her  almost  where  she  now  lies.  I  was 
near  by,  guarding  his  privacy,  but  you  both  escaped  before  I 
could  stop  you.  Now  then,  who  was  that  other  intruder?" 

The  other  was  Rodrigo  Galan,  but  Tiburcio  replied,  "The 
other  will  not  have  much  to  say.  Poor  Captain  Maurel!" 

"Bueno,  bueno!" 

"Not  yet,  mi  coronel.  Only  we  two  know  of  Maximilian's 
part  in  this,  but  we  must  keep  it  from  her  father  above  all 
others.  I  am  a  loyal  Imperialist,  Don  Miguel." 

"What  difference  does  that  make?" 

"The  Empire  faces  a  crisis." 

The  royal  favorite  started  guiltily.  Since  the  news  of  the 
Confederacy's  surrender,  Lopez's  ambitions  were  clouded  by  a 
growing  fear  of  the  fugitive  Mexican  republic.  The  Republic 
would  have  a  good  memory  for  royal  favorites,  and  he  had 
been  thinking  on  it.  "Will  Lee's  surrender  make  such — such 
a  difference?"  he  faltered. 

"So  much,"  retorted  Tiburcio,  "that  to-morrow  we  will 
have  more  rebels  yet.  So  much,  that  what  with  freeing  peons 
and  confiscating  nationalized  church  lands  and  giving  them 
back  to  the  church — well,  a  very  little  more  might  decide 
between  Empire  and  Republic." 

"A  little  more?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  money  for  the  rebels.  Luz's  father  is  rich.  If  he 
knew  that  Maximilian " 

"Hombre,  hombre,  he's  a  miser!" 

"Just  the  same,  I'm  a  loyal  Imperialist,  and  if  you  are,  too, 
you  will  take  good  care  to  tell  nothing  to  Don  Anastasio. " 

"You  forget,  senor,  that  I  am  the  one  to  say  that  to  you." 

"Then  don't  forget,  Colonel  Lopez.  Do  not  forget  that  she 
fell,  that  it  was  a  simple  accident." 

"Yes,  a  simple  accident.  Wait  here,  I  am  going  to  bring 
her  father." 


The  Red  Mongrel  l8l 

On  returning  Lopez  sent  the  guards  away,  and  he  and 
Murguia  were  alone  together.  The  old  man  stood  dazed, 
unresisting. 

"One  minute  more,"  said  Lopez.  "First,  I  must  tell  you 
something.  And  afterward,  you  will  remember.  Yes,  you 
will  remember — afterward.  You  know  who  I  am,  that  I  com- 
mand the  Dragoons  of  the  Empress. — Are  you  listening  ?  But 
do  you  know  that,  in  a  way,  I  am  Maximilian's  confidant? 
Whenever  he  walks  or  rides,  incognito,  dressed  as  a  ranchero, 
I  alone  go  with  him,  as  I  did  during  the  past  ten  days  while  we 
stopped  at  Las  Palmas,  three  leagues  from  here.  The  very 
first  evening  there,  we  two  rode  out,  with  our  cloaks  about  us. 
He  likes  to  commune  with  nature,  and  gather  curious  flowers 
which  he  pastes  in  a  book  and  labels  with  Latin  names.  But 
this  time  he  was  interested  in  peons,  yet  as  he  had  a  delicacy 
about  prying  into  his  host's  business,  we  rode  until  we  left 
Las  Palmas  behind  us.  His  Majesty  would  gaze  on  the  hills 
and  look  at  the  sunset,  and  he  talked  to  me  of  a  poetic  calm 
about  them  which  made  him  long  for  he  knew  not  what.  And 
Murguia " 

Here  the  speaker  paused  abruptly,  and  his  faded  eyes  shifted 
and  hardened. 

"And  Murguia,  we  came  here,  and — he  met  your  child. 
He  met  her  here,  at  this  chapel,  where  she  had  been  to  pray 
for  her  aunt.  Old  man,  do  you  hear  me,  the  Emperor  met 
your  daughter!  Then,  next  day,  instead  of  going  on  with  his 
journey,  he  complained  of  a  cough,  and  stayed  at  Las  Palmas. 
But  every  evening  he  rode  here,  he  and  I.  Once  I  found  a 
chance  to  ask  her  her  name,  but  she  would  only  tell  her  given 
name. — There,  you  will  remember?  Yes,  you  will — after 
you  have  seen  her.  Come,  she  is  not  far  away." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

"  EQUIDAD  EN  LA  JUSTICIA  " 

*'.  .  .  and  I  think  I  shall  begin  to  take  pleasure  in  being  at  home 
and  minding  my  business.  I  pray  God  I  may,  for  I  finde  a  great 
need  thereof." — Pepys"s  Diary. 

AN  hour  later  the  candles  were  still  guttering  in  the 
court  room,  and  here  Colonel  Lopez  assembled  his  minions  of 
justice  a  second  time.  In  his  manner  now  there  was  nothing 
of  the  uncertainty,  nor  the  feigning  of  penetration,  which  had 
before  marked  his  handling  of  the  trials.  He  pounded  the 
box  with  his  sword. 

"In  the  light  of  new  evidence,"  he  announced  shortly,  "the 
two  cases  of  a  while  ago  are  reopened." 

Din  Driscoll  strolled  in.  "I've  come  for  my  belt  and 
pistols.  Dupin  took  them,"  he  said. 

Lopez  signed  to  the  Dragoons  to  close  round  him.  Then  he 
gave  vent.  Did  the  Senor  Gringo  laugh  so  much  at  Mexican 
justice,  since  instead  of  escaping  while  he  had  the  chance,  he 
came  back,  coolly  demanding  his  property?  It  was  insolence! 

"Gra-cious,"  exclaimed  Driscoll  in  his  counterfeit  of  a 
startled  old  lady,  "what's  the  matter?" 

But  Lopez  put  on  a  mien  of  dark  cunning,  and  replied  that  he 
would  find  out  later. 

Murguia's  case  came  first.  The  stricken  father  was  there, 
dragged  from  his  dead  by  the  petty  concerns  of  this  world 
which  cannot  bide  for  grief.  He  was  as  a  sleep-walker.  He 
had  come  into  another  universe.  The  hacienda  sala,  where 
his  child  lay  mid  tapers,  where  mumbled  prayers  arose,  or  this 

182 


"Equidad  en  la  Justicia"  183 

adobe,  where  uniformed  men  fouled  the  air  with  cigarettes  and 
looked  after  the  Empire's  business — the  one  or  the  other, 
both  places  were  of  that  other  universe,  dark  and  silent,  in 
which  his  dazed  being  groped  alone. 

The  new  element  in  the  court  martial  was  Tiburcio,  and 
Tiburcio  had  in  mind  one  golden  goose  to  save  and  one  meddling 
Gringo  to  lose.  He  riddled  the  foregoing  evidence  with  re- 
freshing originality.  He  testified  to  the  brigand  attack  for 
possession  of  the  marquise.  Had  he  not  found  Don  Anastasio 
stretched  upon  the  ground?  Had  not  the  dauntless  anciano, 
the  self-same  Don  Anastasio,  fallen  in  defence  of  the  two 
French  senoritas  ?  And  yet,  did  he  not  keep  Rodrigo  at  bay  ? 
Si,  senores,  he  had  indeed,  until  Colonel  Dupin  and  the  Contras 
arrived.  He,  the  witness,  was  with  them.  He  had  seen  these 
things.  Now,  let  anyone  say  that  the  loyal  Senor  Murguia 
was  an  accomplice  of  that  cut-throat  without  shame,  Rodrigo 
Gald.n;  whom  he,  the  witness,  loathed  from  the  innermost 
recesses  of  his  being;  whom  he,  the  witness,  should  be  greatly 
pleased  to  strike  dead.  But  let  anyone  again  besmirch  the 
character  of  Don  Anastasio!" 

"No,  no,"  vociferously  growled  the  Austrian. 

Lopez  opposed  nothing.  He  had  a  clear  notion  this  time  as 
to  what  he  wanted.  Driscoll  marveled,  and  enjoyed  it.  Pig- 
headedness  had  made  Don  Anastasio  guilty,  why  shouldn't 
perjury  make  him  innocent?  And  it  did.  The  mountain  of 
suspicion  and  some  few  pebbles  of  evidence  melted  away  as 
lard  in  a  skillet.  The  verdict  was  acquittal. 

Driscoll  knew  well  enough  that  the  presence  of  the  loyal 
Imperialist  with  the  baleful  eye  meant  a  reversal  in  his  own 
case  too.  But  the  recent  and  very  definite  animus  of  Lopez 
against  him  he  could  in  no  way  fathom.  The  blackmailer 
testified  again.  The  prisoner,  this  Americano-,  had  waylaid 
him  in  the  wood  two  days  before,  and  had  robbed  ham  of  his 
last  cent. 


184  The  Missourian 

"Which  you  stole  from  Murgie,"  suggested  the  prisoner. 

"I?  I  steal  from  Murguia?"  cried  Tiburcio  indignantly. 
"Ask  him!  Ask  him!" 

Murguia  was  asked.  Had  the  witness  ever,  on  any  occasion, 
robbed  him?  They  repeated  the  question  several  times,  and 
at  last  the  rusty  black  wig,  which  was  bowed  over  a  chair, 
slowly  shook  in  the  negative.  Perhaps  he  had  settled  a  debt 
with  the  witness?  The  wig  changed  to  an  affirmative. 

Tiburcio  gleamed  triumphantly.  "An  audacious  defence!" 
he  exclaimed.  "But  luckily  for  me,  Don  Anastasio  is  here." 

"Oh,  hurry  up!"  protested  Driscoll. 

Asked  if  he  knew  anything  more  of  the  prisoner,  witness 
could  not  swear  for  certain,  except  that  he  recognized  in  the 
American  one  of  the  guerrillas  who  had  ambushed  and  slain 
Captain  Maurel  near  Tampico.  Yes,  witness  was  scouting 
for  the  murdered  captain  at  the  time.  Naturally,  witness  was 
present. 

"You  wanted  proof,  Senor  Americano,  that  you  crossed 
the  river?"  said  Lopez.  "Well,  are  you  content  now?" 

"Go  on,"  Driscoll  returned.  He  was  bored.  "Some 
people  on  earth  are  alive  yet,  but  while  Tibby  is  on  the  stand 
maybe  I  killed  them  too.  I  wouldn't  swear  I  didn't." 

Murguia  was  called  next,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  hear. 
His  body  was  bent  over  his  knees,  silently  trembling.  A 
Dragoon  pressed  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  but  a  sobbing  groan 
racked  his  frame,  as  of  a  very  sick  man  who  will  not  be  awak- 
ened to  his  pain.  The  pause  that  followed  was  uncanny — a 
syncope  in  the  affairs  of  men  like  a  gaping  grave  under  mid- 
night clouds.  Lopez  spoke  again.  He  regretted  that  they 
must  intrude  on  a  fresh  and  poignant  sorrow,  but  the  case  in 
hand  was  a  matter  of  state,  before  which  the  individual  had 
to  give  way.  It  was  very  logical  and  convincing.  But  the 
feeble  old  shoulders  made  no  sign. 

Tiburcio  leaned  over  and  shook  him  gently,  and  whispered 


"Equidad  en  la  Justicia"  185 

in  his  ear.  Still  Murguia  did  not  move.  Tiburcio  gripped 
his  arm.  "You  and  Rodrigo,"  he  said,  so  low  that  none  could 
hear,  "there  was  something  arranged  between  you.  What 
was  it  ?  Tell  me!  Tell  me,  I  say,  if  you  want  the  Gringo  shot!" 

He  bent  nearer,  and  against  his  ear  came  a  muffled  sound  of 
lips.  When  he  straightened,  it  was  to  address  the  court. 

If  he  might  ask  a  question,  had  they  searched  the  prisoner  ? 
They  had.  But  thoroughly?  Thoroughly.  But  not  enough 
to  find  anything?  No.  Then  he  would  suggest  that  they 
had  not  searched  thoroughly.  The  court  seemed  impressed, 
and  Driscoll  was  fumbled  over  again.  Still  they  found  nothing. 

"Whose  flask  is  that?"  Tiburcio  demanded,  pointing  to 
where  it  had  been  tossed  and  forgotten.  The  prisoner's. 
"Look  that  over  again,"  Tiburcio  insisted.  A  guard  handed 
it  to  Lopez,  who  squinted  inside.  "There  is  nothing,"  he 
said.  It  was  only  an  old  canteen  whose  leather  covering  was 
dropping  apart  from  rot. 

Murguia's  head  raised,  and  his  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  the 
judge,  and  in  their  intense  fixity  glittered  a  quick,  keen  lust. 
It  was  hideous,  loathsome,  fascinating.  The  eyes  were 
swimming  in  tears,  but  their  hungered,  metal-like  sheen  made 
the  sorrow  monstrous,  and  was  the  more  foul  and  ghastly 
because  it  distorted  so  pure  a  thing  as  sorrow.  Driscoll  felt 
queerly  that  he  must,  must  remove  from  the  world  this  decrepit 
old  man  who  bemoaned  a  dead  child.  The  itch  for  murder 
terrified  him,  and  he  turned  'away  angrily  from  the  horrid 
face  that  aroused  it.  But  Murguia's  stare  never  relaxed  while 
Lopez  toyed  with  the  canteen.  And  when  Lopez,  as  though 
accidentally,  thrust  a  finger  under  the  torn  leather  and  brought 
out  a  folded  paper,  the  bright  points  of  Murguia's  eyes  leaped 
to  flame.  But  the  head  went  down  again,  as  once  more  his 
grief  swept  over  him,  and  another  sob  caught  at  the  heart- 
strings of  every  man  there. 

Lopez  spread  out  the  paper,  and  as  he  read,  he  started 


i86  The  Missourian 

violently.  He  passed  it  on  to  the  Austrian  and  the  color 
sergeant,  and  they  also  started.  But  the  most  amazed  was 
Driscoll,  when  he  too  had  a  chance  to  read. 

"Ha,  you  recognize  it?"  exclaimed  the  president. 

"Sure  I  do.  It's  an  order  from  Colonel  Dupin  to  Captain 
Maurel.  Rodrigo  had  it  in  Tampico,  making  people  think 
that  he  was  Captain  Maurel." 

But  the  court  was  not  so  simple.  "How  came  you  by  it?" 
demanded  Lopez.  "Have  occasion  to  be  Maurel  yourself 
sometime,  eh?" 

With  wrath,  with  admiration,  Driscoll  faced  round  on  Don 
Anastasio.  "  Oh  you  pesky,  shriveled-up  gorilla ! "  he  breathed. 
He  was  no  longer  amazed.  This  accounted  for  Murguia's 
borrowing  his  flask  the  night  they  were  in  the  forest.  It  ac- 
counted for  Murguia  and  Rodrigo  plotting  together  in  Tampico. 
But  why  tell  such  things  to  the  court?  The  Missourian  was 
not  a  fool  like  King  Canute,  who  ordered  back  the  waves. 
"Hurry  up,"  he  said  wearily  to  the  waves  instead.  Since  he 
could  not  hold  the  tide,  anticipation  chilled  more  than  the 
drowning  bath  itself. 

The  tide  assuredly  did  not  wait.  It  rolled  right  on,  nearer 
and  nearer.  Murguia  was  lifted  to  his  feet.  He  was  remem- 
bering already  what  Lopez  had  told  him,  about  his  daughter 
and  Maximilian,  as  Lopez  had  said  he  would.  The  American's 
easy,  stalwart  form  in  gray  filled  his  blurred  eyes.  Here  was  a 
Confederate  emissary  come  with  an  offer  of  aid  for  that  same 
Maximilian.  Such  had  been  Murguia's  suspicion  from  the 
first,  and  now  it  moved  him  with  venomous  hate.  Yes, 
he  would  testify.  Yes,  yes,  the  prisoner  had  ridden  out  alone 
at  Tampico.  Yes,  yes,  yes,  the  prisoner  was  with  Rodrigo 
there. 

"But  why,  Don  Anastasio,"  asked  Tiburcio  purely  in  fan- 
tastic mischief,  "did  you  bring  such  a  disturbing  man  to  our 
happy  country?" 


"Equidad  en  la  Justicia"  187 

"That  will  do,"  Lopez  interposed.  "The  Senor  Murguia 
could  not  know  at  the  time  that  this  fellow  was  Rodrigo's 
agent." 

"And,"  Murguia  added  eagerly,  "I  was  helpless,  there  at 
Mobile.  The  Confederates  could  have  sunk  my  boat,  and  he 
held  an  order  from  Jefferson  Davis." 

"What's  that?"  cried  Tiburcio,  his  humor  suddenly  van- 
ished. "What's  that,  an  order  from  Jefferson  Davis?" 

Tiburcio's  was  a  new  interest,  now.  He  possessed  a  mind  as 
crooked  as  his  vision,  and  being  crooked,  it  followed  unerringly 
the  devious  paths  of  other  minds.  So,  they  had  made  a  tool  of 
him!  Rodrigo  and  Murguia  wanted  the  Gringo  shot  to  help 
the  rebel  cause.  And  he,  Tiburcio  of  the  cunning  wits,  had 
just  sworn  away,  not  only  the  Gringo's  life,  but  the  possible 
salvation  of  the  Empire.  Coming  from  Jefferson  Davis,  the 
Gringo  with  his  mission  could  mean  nothing  else.  Then 
there  was  Lopez.  Tiburcio  did  not  love  this  changeling  Mex- 
ican who  had  red  hair.  But  what  could  be  the  mongrel's 
game  ?  Why  had  he  freed  Murguia,  if  not  to  unleash  a  small 
terrier  at  Maximilian's  heel  ?  Why  was  he  trying  the  American 
over  again,  if  not  to  poison  a  friendly  mastiff?  And  why 
either,  if  Don  Miguel  Lopez  were  not  seeking  to  make  friends 
with  the  Republic  ?  Or  perhaps  he  was  at  heart  a  Republican. 
Thus  Don  Tiburcio,  a  loyal  Imperialist,  read  the  finger  posts 
as  he  ambled  down  the  crooked  path. 

Yes,  and  here  was  Lopez  putting  on  the  final  touch.  Here 
he  was,  the  traitor,  pronouncing  the  death  sentence,  and  poor 
impotent  Don  Tiburcio  gnawing  his  baffled  rage,  as  one  would 
say  of  a  villain.  The  execution  was  to  take  place  the  very 
next  morning.  His  Majesty  the  Emperor  would  be  asked  to 
approve,  afterward. 


"  E  un  peccato  che  se  ne  va  con  Facqua  benedetta." 

— Machiavelli. 

THE  Storm  Centre  looked  round,  about  and  above.  He 
was  as  a  fly  in  a  bottle.  A  massive  rough-hewn  door,  jammed 
tight,  sealed  him  within  adobe  walls  two  feet  thick.  There 
was  one  window,  cross-barred,  as  high  as  his  chin,  and  only 
large  enough  to  frame  his  head.  They  had  brought  him  to  the 
carcel,  or  dungeon,  of  the  hacienda,  where  peons  were  con- 
strained to  docility.  A  wide  masonry  bench  against  the  wall 
approximated  a  couch,  but  it  was  as  blocked  ice.  By  the  flick- 
ering of  a  lone  tallow  dip,  Din  Driscoll  noted  these  things  with 
every  sense  delicately  attuned  to  strategy.  But  his  verdict 
was  unpromising. 

"Tough  luck!"  he  observed. 

The  adobe  was  built  among  the  stables  that  bordered  on  the 
pasture,  and  when  not  needed  as  a  calabozo,  it  served  snugly 
for  the  administrador's  best  horse.  From  the  one  stall  came 
a  tentative  whinny.  Driscoll  jumped  with  delight.  "Demi- 
john! W'y,  you  good  old  scoundrel,  you !"  The  night  before, 
he  remembered,  he  had  seen  the  horse  bedded  here.  "Say 
howdy  as  loud  as  you  want,"  he  cried,  slapping  him  fondly 
on  the  flank,  "you'll  not  betray  us.  That's  been  done  already." 

Driscoll  was  cavalryman  to  the  bone,  and  it  heartened  him 
unaccountably  to  find  his  horse.  If,  only,  he  could  have  his 
pistols  too!  Ever  since  the  Federals  had  cut  him  off  from  his 
furloughs  home,  those  black  ugly  navies  were  next  to  the 

1 88 


A  Curious  Pagan  Rite  189 

nearest  in  his  affections.  The  nearest  was  the  buckskin  charger. 
And  now,  only  the  buckskin  was  left,  which  simply  made  the 
dilemma  more  poignant.  The  condemned  man  gazed  critically 
at  the  walls,  the  rafters,  the  ground,  and  shook  his  head. 
Supposing  a  chance  for  escape,  could  he  bring  himself  to  leave 
Demijohn  behind?  He  got  his  pipe  to  going,  sat  down,  and 
frowned  ruefully  at  the  candle. 

"7  don't  want  to  be  shot!"  he  burst  out  suddenly,  with  a 
plaintive  twang.  Then  he  grinned.  The  boy  still  in  him 
had  prompted  the  absurdity.  And  the  rough  warrior  had 
laughed  at  it.  Boy  and  warrior  faced  each  other,  either 
surprised  that  the  other  existed.  The  boy  flushed  resentfully 
at  the  veteran's  contemptuous  grunt.  His  eyes  still  had 
the  boy's  naively  inquisitive  greeting  to  the  world  before  him. 
Next,  quite  abruptly,  the  warrior  knew  a  bitterness  against 
himself.  If  he  could,  but  once,  whimper  as  the  lad  about  to 
be  soundly  strapped !  He  took  no  pride  in  his  irony,  nor 
in  his  hardened  indifference  to  the  visage  of  death.  How 
far,  how  very  far,  had  the  few  past  years  of  strife  carried  him 
from  the  youngster  who  used  to  gaze  so  eagerly,  so  expectantly, 
out  on  life! 

First,  he  was  home  from  the  University,  from  the  pretty, 
shady  little  Missouri  town  of  Columbia.  But  the  vacation 
following  he  spent  in  bloodily  helping  to  drive  the  Jayhawkers 
back  across  the  Kansas  line.  And  soon  after,  when  the  fighting 
opened  up  officially,  and  his  State,  at  the  start,  had  more  of  it 
than  any  other  battle  ground,  how  many  hundreds  of  times  did 
his  life  bide  by  the  next  throw  of  Fate?  During  one  cruel 
winter  month  he  had  lain  with  other  wounded  in  a  hospital 
dug-out  in  the  river's  cliff,  and  there,  wanting  both  quinine 
and  food,  he  would  peep  through  the  reeds,  only  to  see  the 
merciless  Red  Legs  prying  about  in  search  of  his  hiding  place. 

And  then  there  was  the  wild,  busily  dangerous  life  with  Old 
Joe's  Brigade,  with  that  brigade  of  Missouri's  young  firebrands. 


igo  The  Missourian 

Once,  stretched  on  the  prairie,  where  he  had  dropped  from 
exhaustion  and  hunger  and  loss  of  blood,  the  Storm  Centre 
awoke  to  find  a  Pin  Indian  stooping  over  him  for  his  scalp. 
On  that  occasion,  the  deft  turning  of  the  wrist  from  the  waist 
outward,  with  the  stripping  of  the  pistol's  hammer  simultan- 
eously, had  enabled  him  later  to  restore  to  relatives  certain 
other  scalps  already  dangling  from  the  savage's  girdle. 

And  now  here  he  was  in  an  adobe  with  walls  two  feet  thick, 
and  numerous  saddle-colored  Greasers  proposing  to  shoot  him 
first  thing  in  the  morning! 

"I'll  be  blessedly  damned,"  he  drawled  querulously,  "I 
object!" 

It  was  the  warrior  who  spoke  now,  and  with  him  the  boy 
joined  hands.  They  became  as  one  and  the  same  person. 
The  common  foe  was  without.  They  would  see  this  through 
together,  with  grim  stoicism,  with  young-blooded  daredeviltry. 

The  door  opened,  and  one  of  the  common  foe,  bearing  a 
tray,  came  within. 

"Well,  Don  Erastus,  how  goes  it?"  With  a  pang  of  home- 
Hckness  the  Missourian  thought  of  darkies  who  carried  trays. 

'*  Juan  Bautista,  at  Y'r  Mercy's  orders,"  the  Dragoon  cor- 
rected him. 

"Don  John  the  Baptist  then,  como  le  whack?" 

"Bien,  senor,  bien." 

"Any  theory  as  to  what  you've  got  there?" 

"Y'r  Mercy's  supper.  The  Senor  Coronel  Lopez  does  not 
desire  that  Y'r  Mercy  should  have  any  complaint." 

"Oh,  none  whatever,  Johnny,  except  what  I'm  to  die  of. 
Set  it  down,  here  on  the  feather  bed." 

There  were  a  few  native  dishes,  with  a  botellon  of  water 
and  a  jar  of  wine.  Driscoll  tipped  the  botellon  to  his  lips. 
His  whiskey  flask  had  contained  poison,  though  -the  poison  of 
ink,  and  as  he  drank,  he  pondered  on  why  water  should  not 
be  an  antidote  for  the  poisons  that  lurk  in  whiskey  flasks. 


A  Curious  Pagan  Rite  191 

Then  he  wondered  why  such  foolish  conceits  at  such  times 
persist  in  shouldering  death  itself  out  of  a  man's  thoughts. 
And  meanwhile,  there  stood  the  precursor  of  his  end,  in  the 
emblematic  person  of  a  very  brown  John  the  Baptist.  The 
fellow's  gorgeous  red  jacket  was  unbuttoned,  revealing  a  sordid 
dirty  shirt.  He  was  officer  of  the  guard,  and  had  a  curiosity 
as  to  how  a  Gringo  about  to  be  shot  would  act.  He  waited 
clumsily,  lantern  in  hand.  But  he  was  disappointed.  There 
seemed  to  be  nothing  out  of  the  common-place.  Some  con- 
demned Mexican,  though  a  monotonously  familiar  spectacle, 
would  yet  have  been  more  entertaining. 

Driscoll  looked  at  him  over  the  botellon.  That  earthen 
bottle  had  not  left  the  prisoner's  lips.  It  had  stopped  there, 
poised  aloft  by  an  idea. 

"See  here,"  Driscoll  complained,  "where's  the  rest  of  the 
water  I'm  to  have?" 

"Of  what  water,  senor?" 

"For  my  bath,  of  course.     Don't  I  die  to-morrow?" 

"Yes,  but " 

•'Here,  this  wine  is  too  new  for  me.  Drink  it  yourselt,  if 
you  want." 

"Many  thanks,  senor,  with  pleasure.  But  a  bath?  I 
don't  understand." 

"No?    Don't  you  Mexicans  ever  bathe  before  you  die?" 

"We  send  for  the  padre." 

"Oh,  that's  it!  And  he  spiritually  washes  your  sins  away? 
But  suppose  you  couldn't  get  your  padre?" 

The  Indian  shuddered.  "Ai,  Maria  purisima,  one's  soul 
would  go  to  everlasting  torment!" 

"There!  Now  you  can  understand  why  I  count  so  much  on 
ablution.  It's  absolution." 

The  native  readily  believed.  Like  others  of  his  class,  he 
thought  all  Protestants  pagans,  and  none  Catholic  but  a 
Mexican.  "Must  be  something  like  John  the  Baptist's  day, 


192  The  Missourian 

verdad,  senor?"  he  said.  "On  that  holy  day,  once  a  year,  we 
must  all  take  a  bath." 

"Quite  right  too,"  Driscoll  returned  soberly.  "A  man 
should  go  through  most  anything  for  his  religion. — Haven't 
noticed  my  horse  there,  have  you,  Johnny?"  The  guard 
pricked  up  his  ears.  "Of  course  not,"  Driscoll  went  on, 
"you're  worrying  about  my  soul  instead.  Well,  so  am  I. 
We  Americans,  you  know,  save  our  yearly  baths  for  one  big 
solemn  final  one,  just  before  we  die.  And  if  I  don't  get  mine 
to-night,  I'll  be  associating  with  you  unshrived  Mexicans 
hereafter,  and  that  would  be  pretty  bad,  wouldn't  it?  It's 
what  made  me  think  of  my  horse  there.  That  horse,  Johnny, 
is  heavy  on  my  soul.  He's  most  too  heavy  to  wash  away. 
Now,  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  that  I  actually  stole  him,  but 
just  the  same,  if  a  good  man  like  you  would  take  him,  after 
I'm  gone — why,  I'd  feel  that  he  was  washed  off  pretty  well." 

The  Mexican's  sympathy  grew  more  keen. 

"But  the  other  sins,"  Driscoll  added,  "they'll  need  water, 
and  a  great  plenty,  too." 

Juan  Bautista  was  feeling  the  buckskin's  knees.  Driscoll 
longed  to  choke  him,  but  instead,  he  drove  again  at  the  wedge. 
"Another  thing,  I'll  have  to  leave  my  money  behind."  He 
mentioned  it  casually,  but  his  breath  stopped  while  he  waited 
for  the  effect.  The  guard  straightened.  Demijohn's  knees 
seemed  to  be  all  right.  He  took  up  the  tray,  and  opened 
the  door,  yet  without  a  word.  DriscolPs  fist  doubled,  to  strike 
and  run  for  it.  Then  the  fellow  spoke. 

"Does  Y'r  Mercy  want  soap  too?" 

The  fist  unclenched.  "No,"  came  the  reply,  almost  in  a 
joyful  gasp,  "this  is  for,  for  godliness  only." 

"One  jar,   senor?" 

"Bless  me,  no!    Two  big  ones,  bigger'n  a  barrel." 

With  a  parting  glance  at  Demijohn,  the  guard  stole  forth  to 
gratify  the  heathen's  whim. 

"I'll  give  him  enough  to  buy  a  horse,"  Driscoll  resolved. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
THE  MAN  WHO  DID  NOT  WANT  TO  BE  SHOT 

"A  horse  and   a  man 
Is  more  than  one, 
And  yet  not  many." 

— Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

"Now  Berthe — why,  what  in  the  world "  Jacqueline 

began. 

It  was  her  second  morning  to  awake  in  the  hacienda  house, 
and  the  little  Bretonne  tripped  into  her  room  under  a  starchy 
mountain  heaped  high.  "Clothes,  madame,"  she  replied. 

"He  mais " 

"They  were  made  yesterday  by  some  of  the  ranchero 
women.  Madame  will  look?" 

"Calico!     Grands  dieux!" 

There  were  two  dresses,  one  for  each  girl.  The  native 
seamstresses  had  slyly  taken  stock  of  mademoiselle  the  day 
before,  only  to  discover  that  a  "simple"  frock  from  Paris  was 
a  formidable  thing  to  duplicate.  The  marchioness  smiled, 
and  the  maid  also. 

"But,  for  example,  Berthe,  who  inspired  this?" 

"He   did." 

"He?" 

"The  American  monsieur,  of  course." 

"Oh,  the  American  monsieur,  of  course!  So,  monsieur 
permits  himself  to  observe  that  I  need  a  wardrobe  ?  But  you, 
Berthe,  you  surely  did  not " 

"Oh,  no,  madame!  I  knew  nothing,  till  just  now,  when  the 
woman  brought  them.  The  monsieur  ordered  them  yesterday, 

193 


194  The  Missourian 

she  said.  And  naturally,  madame,  if  he  could  have  found 
better  material,  I  do  not  doubt " 

"There,  child,  I'll  not  be  reproached  by  your  even  thinking 
it  necessary  to  defend " 

"And  madame  will  see,  too,  that  they  will  do  nicely." 
She  spread  the  frocks  on  the  bed,  and  began  snipping  here  and 
there  with  the  scissors  and  taking  stitches  everywhere.  "By 
letting  it  out  this  way — voila,  if  madame  will  kindly  slip  it  on  ?  " 

"Berthe,  you  can't  mean — Oh  nonsense!" 

None  the  less  the  skirt  passed  over  her  head,  and  the  maid's 
deft  fingers  kept  on  busily.  "And  why  not?"  she  talked  as 
she  worked,  "unless  one  likes  rags  better.  And  who  will 
see?  Only  men.  Poof,  those  citizens  do  not  know  percale 
from  a  Parisian  toilette." 

Jacqueline  began  to  wax  angry  with  the  quiet  tyranny  of  it. 
She  looked  at  the  horror  and  shuddered,  then  with  both  hands 
pushed  the  calico  to  the  floor,  gathering  up  her  own  lawn  skirt 
instead.  It  was  rather  a  woebegone  lawn  skirt.  She  gazed 
ruefully  at  the  garment,  then  down  at  the  blue  flowering  heaped 
about  her  ankles.  Berthe,  kneeling  over  the  dress,  raised  her 
eyes.  The  puckered  brow  of  her  mistress  spelled  fury,  and 
the  maid  tried  not  to  laugh,  at  which  Jacqueline  stamped  her 
foot.  "Berthe,"  she  cried,  "shall  I  slap  you?" 

"Mais  oui,  madame.  And  madame,  I  was  thinking,  what 
will  he  say  if  you  do  not  wear  it  ? " 

Jacqueline  gave  her  a  keen  look.  "Child,  child,"  she  ex- 
claimed, "you  seem  to  imagine  that  whatever  he  wants " 

"Oui,  madame. — I  think  you  can  try  it  on  again  now." 

And  madame  submitted  petulantly.  But  to  herself  she 
had  to  confess  the  magic  in  Berthe's  fingers.  Though  she 
pouted  over  the  fresh,  rustic  effect,  yet  on  her  slender  figure 
there  was  witchery  in  it. 

An  orderly  knocked.  He  was  one  of  her  Austrian  escorts 
come  to  say  that  everything  was  ready  for  departure.  She 


The  Man  Who  Did  Not  Want  to  Be  Shot      195 

gladly  hailed  the  chance  to  escape  this  house  of  mourning. 
All  night  long  old  women  in  the  death  chamber  had  mumbled 
incantations,  and  the  droning  was  in  her  ears  as  she  slept. 
It  was  not  nice.  Because  she  could  not  blot  out  the  inartistic 
shock  of  ugly  mortality,  in  very  self-hate  she  yearned  to  get 
away.  The  evening  before,  even  while  she  loaned  common 
sense  to  the  crazed  household,  even  while  she  pressed  down 
the  icy  eyelids,  she  wondered — obstinately  wondered,  despite 
herself,  what  the  dead  girl  could  have  thought,  what  she  could 
have  felt,  during  that  one  horrid,  thrilling  second  of  flight 
downward,  and  what,  in  anticipation  of  the  second  after. 
It  was  gruesome,  this  being  always  and  always  the  spectator. 
Yet  Jacqueline  knew  that,  had  it  been  she  herself  plunging 
from  the  tower,  she  still  would  have  been  that  spectator. 
Too  well  she  knew  that  she  would  have  analyzed  what  she 
thought  and  felt.  She  would  have  rated  even  the  second 
before  eternity  in  its  degree  as  a  frisson;  and,  no  doubt,  would 
have  been  aware  of  a  voluptuous  satiety,  while  anticipating 
the  second  after.  She  hated  herself,  and  she  hated  too  the 
smart,  ultra-refined  life  that  had  brought  her  to  it.  How 
many  of  those  past  years,  or  of  the  years  to  come  would  she  not 
give  to  shed  a  few  tears  without  interrogating  them! 

Ney  met  the  two  girls  under  the  colonnade.  At  the  steps 
was  the  coach  and  eight  mules  left  by  Maximilian  for  their  use, 
and  drawn  up  in  stately  line  were  Messieurs  the  Feathers  and 
Furs,  as  Jacqueline  called  His  Majesty's  Austrian  Imperial 
Guards.  When  she  appeared,  out  flashed  their  curved  blades. 
The  queenly  little  lady  in  blue-flowered  calico  and  a  rakish 
Leghorn  hat  returned  the  salute  with  a  smile. 

"Where  are  the  Dragoons,  Michel?"  she  asked. 

Ney  did  not  know.  But  a  Mexican  with  a  crossed  eye  ap- 
proached, doffing  a  silver-lettered  sombrero.  He  had  been 
waiting  for  her,  he  said.  There  was  time.  Otherwise  he 
would  have  forced  his  way  to  wherever  she  was, 


196  The   Missourian 

"Indeed,  Seigneur  Farceur?"  said  Jacqueline. 

She  recognized  that  most  sinister  of  jokers,  Don  Tiburcio. 
He  was  eyeing  her  narrowly,  and  there  was  a  vigilance  in  the 
baleful  gleam,  as  though  of  late  he  might  have  been  deceived 
by  his  fellowmen. 

"But,"  he  coolly  proceeded,  "only  a  few  minutes  are  left 
now." 

"My  good  man,  whatever  are  you  talking  about?" 

"And  after  the  few  minmtes,  we'll  have  the  shooting.  I 
came  to  invite  Your  Mercy." 

"Shoot  whom?" 

"There  is  but  one  prisoner." 

"You  mean  Senor  Murguia ?  The  American  was  acquitted, 
I  believe." 

"It's  the  other  way,  senorita.  They  were  both  tried  over 
again,  and  then,  the  American  was  condemned." 

"Mademoiselle,"  ejaculated  Ney,  "you  are  deathly " 

"I  am  not!"  Jacqueline  protested  furiously.  "It's  the 
powder." 

But  Berthe  knew  better.  Her  mistress  used  it  not,  for  all 
the  roguish  freckle  on  her  nose-tip.  Tiburcio,  too,  was  satisfied 
as  to  her  sudden  pallor.  She  would  save  him  the  American, 
he  decided.  "Your  Mercy  had  best  hasten,"  he  urged  her 
frankly. 

Jacqueline  ran  to  the  end  of  the  portico,  from  were  she 
could  see  the  pasture.  Within,  a  platoon  of  red  jackets  were 
filing  toward  the  carcel. 

"That  scoundrel  Lopez!"  exclaimed  Tiburcio,  "he  has 
advanced  the  time  on  us!" 

Only  for  an  instant  did  Jacqueline  wring  her  hands. 

"Michel,  your  horse!"  she  cried.  "Quick,  quick!  Now 
hold  the  stirrup!" 

But  Tiburcio  was  the  quicker.  He  bent  his  knee,  on  it 
she  stepped,  and  up  she  jumped,  and  kicked  her  heel  as  a 


The  Man  Who  Did  Not  Want  to  Be  Shot      197 

spur.  The  charger  leaped,  and  down  the  road  clattered  girl 
and  horse,  she  swaying  perilously. 

It  was  a  hundred  yards  to  the  pasture  gate,  and  as  much  again 
to  the  adobe  inside.  When  her  horse  rose  in  his  gallop,  she 
caught  glimpses  over  the  wall.  The  Dragoons  were  drawing 
up  before  the  carcel.  Sentinels  tugged  at  the  huge  wooden 
door,  and  Lopez  goaded  them  on.  He  saw  her  coming,  and 
would  have  it  over  with  before  she  could  interfere.  He  bel- 
lowed an  order,  and  the  shooting  squad  threw  up  their  guns 
at  aim.  They  would  not  wait.  They  would  fire  on  their 
victim  the  second  the  door  opened.  The  heavy  oak  began  to 
give.  But  that  moment  swinging  in  through  the  gate,  Jacque- 
line could  see  only  the  carcel's  blank  adobe  wall.  Yet  she 
pictured  the  man  just  behind.  She  pictured  the  door  opening. 
And — too  late!  Dieu,  the  muskets  had  volleyed  already! 

But — what  made  the  shots  scatter  so?  Scattered  and 
flurried,  they  sounded.  And  no  wonder!  She  saw  a  miracle 
in  the  doing.  It  was  the  most  astounding  sight  of  all  her 
life  long.  Straight  through  the  blank  adobe  wall,  for  all  its 
two  feet  of  thickness,  she  beheld  a  man  on  a  great-boned 
yellow  horse,  both  man  and  horse  plunge  mid  a  sudden  cloud 
of  dust,  plunge  squarely  into  the  light  of  day. 

The  dumfounded  shooting  squad  had  blazed  crazily  against 
the  half-open  door;  and  for  the  critical  quarter  minute  follow- 
ing, their  weapons  were  harmless.  Other  Dragoons  ran  wildly 
out  into  the  pasture,  and  as  wildly  fired  at  the  horseman. 
Only  one  of  the  sentinels  had  happened  to  be  on  the  side  of 
the  magic  exit,  but  as  the  solid  wall  dissolved  into  a  powdered 
cloud  and  the  apparition  hurtled  past  him,  down  upon  his 
head  crashed  a  gigantic  water  jar  filled  with  earth.  He  who 
had  sympathized  with  pagan  ablutions  the  night  before  stood 
now  with  mouth  agape.  Some  heathen  god  was  having  a  hand 
in  this,  he  knew. 

Jacqueline  wheeled  to  Driscoll's  side  as  he  dashed  toward 


198  The  Missourian 

her.  He  was  coatless.  His  woolen  shirt  was  open  at  the 
neck,  the  sleeves  were  rolled  to  the  elbows.  His  slouch  hat 
sat  upon  the  back  of  his  head.  The  short  cropped  curls,  gray 
with  dust,  fluttered  against  the  brim.  She  had  never  seen  a 
face  so  buoyantly  happy. 

"Morning,  Miss  Jack-leen!    Race  you  to  the  river?" 

They  galloped  through  the  gate  together.  He  was  for 
turning  down  the  road,  but  she  blocked  his  horse  with  her  own. 
During  a  second  the  flight  was  stopped. 

"I'm  in  a  hurry  just  now,"  he  panted,  but  made  no  effort  to 
get  by  her. 

" Up  that  way ! "  she  cried.     "Up  that  way,  past  the  House! " 

"But   those   pretty   boys " 

"The  Austrians?    They'll  not  stop  you,  I  promise." 

"Then  it's  our  move.     Careful,  little  girl,  don't  fall!" 

Jacqueline,  waving  her  arm,  signaled  the  Feathers  and 
Furs  to  make  room,  and  Tiburcio  and  Ney  saw  to  it  that 
they  did.  Man  and  girl  raced  through  them. 

"Wait  here,  Michel!"  called  Jacqueline,  leaving  Ney  still 
with  thumb  to  cap  at  salute.  Tiburcio  gazed  after  them. 

Lopez  ran  across  the  pasture  to  the  colonnade.  His  red 
face  was  redder  than  ever  before.  Tiburcio  sardonically 
regarded  him.  Lopez  glared  at  Ney. 

"Why  aren't  you  in  pursuit?"  he  demanded  hotly. 

"And   you,   monsieur?" 

"And  I,  and  I!  Who  are  you  to  question  me,  senor ?  Every 
girth  has  been  cut!" 

"Caramba,  mi  coronel,"  cried  Tiburcio  in  dismay,  "you 
don't  say  so!" 

"And  it  will  take  ten  minutes  to  tie  up  the  cords,  while  you, 
you,  Senor  Frenchman,  you  stand  there,  your  men  mounted 
and  ready!  Obey  me,  I  tell  you!" 

"Can't,"  said  Ney  doggedly.     "Against  orders." 

"Orders?    Whose  orders?" 


The  Man  Who  Did  Not  Want  to  be  Shot      199 

"Of  Mademoiselle  la  Marquise,  monsieur." 

"Who  runs  away  with  a  convict.  A  fit  commander,  por 
Dios!" 

Off  came  the  Frenchman's  gauntlet,  but  he  paused  in  the 
gesture  of  striking.  Too  quick  at  this,  and  not  enough  at  wits, 
he  might  ruin  her  plans. 

"As  fit,"  he  retorted  instead,  "as  another  who  lets  prisoners 
escape.  I  advise  Monsieur  the  Colonel  to  look  to  his  girths." 


"  Yet  am  I  sure  of  one  pleasure, 
And  shortly,  it  is  this: 
That,  where  ye  be,  me  seemeth,  parde, 
I  could  not  fare  amiss." 

— Ballad  of  the  Nut  Brown  Maid, 

DIN  DRISCOLL  had  never  remotely  imagined  that  there  could 
be  such  intoxication  in  a  horseback  ride.  The  person  on  the 
other  horse  made  for  the  difference.  How  the  joy  of  her 
filled  him  that  instant  of  his  bursting  through  the  black  prison 
wall  into  the  bright  morning  of  the  world!  She,  the  splendid 
first  thing  to  gladden  his  eyes!  Could  liberty  be  really  so 
glorious?  Ravishing  horsewoman,  she  was  coming  to  save 
him.  He  had  supposed  her  on  her  way  to  Mexico,  and  'twas 
she  whom  he  saw  first  of  all. 

And  now,  she  rode  beside  him.  They  two,  they  were  riding 
together,  alone.  The  smell  of  the  wild  free  air  of  the  universe 
thrilled  them  both  with  an  exquisite  recklessness.  Vague, 
limitless,  subtle  in  mystery,  the  seduction  of  it  was  .ineffable. 
Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  peeped  at  her.  But  wasn't 
she  perched  entrancingly  on  that  dragoon  saddle,  wasn't  she, 
though?  The  richly  heavy  coils  of  burnished  copper  had 
loosened,  and  they  were  very  disconcerting  in  their  suggestion 
of  flowing  wealth.  If  they  would  but  fall  about  her  shoulders! 
And  the  lace  from  the  slanting  hat  brim,  and  the  velvet  patch 
near  the  dimple — the  velvet  patch  called  an  assassin.  And — 
what  dress  was  that?  Flowered  calico?  Yes,  and  light  blue. 
His  cheeks  burned  as  of  one  surprised  in  crime,  but  the  self- 

200 


The  Person  on  the  Other  Horse  201 

possessed  young  woman  herself  was  oblivious.  So  was  it 
this,  a  blue  flowered  gown,  that  made  her  so  suddenly  tangible, 
so  tangible  and  maddening?  The  haughty  Parisienne  of 
imperial  courts  was  gone.  In  fact,  she  had  become  so  dis- 
tractingly  tangible  that — well,  he  didn't  know.  But  a  lump 
got  into  his  throat.  She  might  be  a  Missouri  girl,  this  moment. 
And  there  came  to  Vim  the  vision  of  one,  of  a  Missouri  girl 
molding  biscuits,  patting  them,  and  her  arms  were  bared,  in  a 
simple  piquancy  just  like  Jacqueline's  now.  He  even  saw 
the  pickaninnies  in  the  shade  of  the  porch  outside,  worshiping 
the  real  Missouri  girl  from  the  very  whites  of  their  eyes.  How 
he  had  loved  to  tease  her!  He  could  not  help  it;  she  was  so 
daintily  prim.  That  he  should  thus  think  of  his  sister,  the 
while  gazing  on  the  one-time  gilded  butterfly — to  say  the  least, 
it  was  a  pertinent  comment  on  the  transmuting  magic  that 
lurks  in  blue  flowered  percale. 

They  slowed  to  a  trot. 

"Monsieur  is  my  prisoner,  yes,"  said  she  in  her  wonderful 
English. 

He  took  the  other  meaning.  "I  don't  know — yet,"  he 
returned  soberly. 

She  laughed,  and  he  realized  that  he  had  spoken  aloud. 

He  turned  on  himself  in  dismay.  "What's  the  matter  with 
me?"  he  muttered. 

"I  think,  monsieur,"  said  Jacqueline  demurely,"  that  I 
have  the  guess." 

"You  haven't — you  can't  guess  either!  I  don't  know  my- 
self." 

"Just  the  same,  I  wish  I  knew  so  well  my  chances  for 
heaven." 

"But  you're  mistaken,  I  tell  you.     I'm  not!" 

"Not  what,  monsieur?" 

"In,  in — w'y,  in  love." 

Jacqueline's  laughter  was  the  merriest  peal.    In  the  end 


202  The  Missourian 

he  half  grinned.  Little  use  trying  to  convince  the  little  witch ! 
He  had  much  to  do  convincing  himself. 

On  the  farther  slope  of  a  hill  where  coffee  grew  and  the 
giant  sheltering  banana  hid  the  road,  they  paused  at  a  trail 
that  crossed  the  highway  and  wound  on  down  toward  the 
Panuco  river,  where  tropical  stuff  for  Tampico  was  transferred 
from  burros  to  dugout  barges.  Jacqueline  listened.  There 
were  no  sounds  of  pursuit  as  yet,  nor  was  there  any  one  in 
sight.  Making  up  her  mind,  she  changed  to  the  path.  Driscoll 
followed,  with  a  delight  in  this  new  leadership  over  him. 

When  they  gained  the  river,  she  stopped  again,  and  he  did 
too. 

"But  you  must  go,  on,  on!"  she  protested.  "They  may 
not  be  deceived,  no.  They  may  have  you  to  overtake  here." 
She  held  out  her  hand.  "There,  this  path,  you  follow  it  to 
Tampico.  Good  bye.  Yes,  yes,  you  have  not  one  minute!" 

Driscoll  took  the  little  gauntleted  hand  readily  enough. 
He  saw  that  the  lines  of  her  face  were  drawn,  but  her  manner 
was  inexorable. 

"How  do  you  like  your  dress?"  he  inquired. 

Had  she  been  on  her  feet,  she  would  have  stamped  one  of 
them.  "Monsieur,"  she  cried,  "here  is  no  time  to  observe  the 
replenishment  of  a  lady's  wardrobe.  Do  you  go?  I  insist.  I 
wish  you  bon  voyage  to  your  own  country,  monsieur." 

"But  it's  so  far  away.  I  reckon  I'd  better  rest  a  spell  first. 
A  month  or  so,  prob'bly." 

She  watched  him  clamber  down  and  tie  Demijohn  to  the 
low  branch  of  a  live  oak  on  the  river's  bank. 

"There  you  are,  getting  stubborn  again,"  she  said.  But 
the  lines  in  her  face  had  vanished. 

"Of  course  I  mean  to  see  you  back  to  your  friends,"  he 
explained. 

"Merci  bien.  But  you  will  not.  You  will  have  this  river 
straight  to  Tampico.  I  say  y es ! " 


The  Person  on  the  Other  Horse  203 

She  turned  her  horse  as  she  spoke,  whereat  he  started  to 
remount  his  own. 

"I  think,  sir "  she  began  haughtily. 

"The  road  is  free." 

"Oh,  why  have  you  to  be  so,  so  quarrelsome?" 

"The  temptation,  I  reckon." 

"You  really  will  go  back  with  me?" 

"I  might  be  going  back  along  about  the  same  time.  It's  a 
public  trail." 

"Then  I  will  stay,  and  you  must!  I  will  not  permit  you  to 
go  back  there  now.  I  will  see  that  you  do  wait  here  so  long 
until  Lopez  has  the  time  to  start  to  Mexico  after  you.  Then 
you  will  be  behind  him.  Have  the  goodness  to  hold  my 
bridle.  I  think  I  shall  take  me  a  rest  a  little  also." 

Together  they  sat  on  a  huge  live-oak  root  and  watched  the 
sluggish  Panuco  flow  by. 

"No  hurry  now,"  Driscoll  observed  comfortably.  "Our 
scarlet  upholstered  colonel  won't  get  away  for  years 
yet." 

Years,  at  least,  were  in  his  wishes,  years  in  which  to  provoke 
her  quaintly  inflected  English,  and  its  quaint  little  slips.  She 
had  learned  it  in  London  long  before,  playing  with  wee  Honor- 
able toddlers  while  her  father  played  France's  diplomacy 
with  grown-ups.  That  accent  of  hers,  then,  was  as  broad 
as  Mayfair,  and  to  the  Missourian  doubly  foreign,  and  doubly 
alluring. 

"I  cannot  understand,"  she  said,  "why  it  is  the  Dragoons 
have  not  followed  you  immediately?" 

"Tibby's  the  reason,  I  reckon.  That  Tibby  is  a  deep 
one." 

She  made  him  explain,  and  he  told  her.  The  blackmailing 
humorist,  Tiburcio,  had  paid  him  a  visit  at  his  dungeon  window 
during  the  night.  Being  chief  witness  for  the  prosecution, 
Tiburcio  could  pass  the  sentry  unchallenged. 


204  The  Missourian 

"Come  for  your  money?"  Driscoll  had  inquired,  and 
Tiburcio  seemed  hurt. 

"What  is  the  matter,"  Tiburcio  demanded,  "with  pointing 
a  revolver  at  the  Sefior  Americano  right  now,  and  making  him 
deliver?" 

Driscoll  had  not  figured  out  what  the  objections  might  be, 
but  he  reckoned  some  would  materialize. 

"But,"  said  Tiburcio,  "I'm  not  doing  it,  and  why?  Simply 
because  I  want  to  know  if  you  care  to  escape  ?" 

"W'y,"  returned  Driscoll,  "I'll  think  it  over,  and  let  you 
know  in  the  morning,"  at  which  lack  of  confidence  Tiburcio 
was  more  hurt  than  ever. 

"What's  the  use,"  Driscoll  objected,  "they'd  catch  me 
again?" 

"Not  if  I  fixed  their  horses,  and  if  I  do,  will  you  promise  to 
get  out?" 

And  thus  the  bargain  had  stood,  and  thus  it  was  fulfilled, 
though  at  the  last  the  anxious  Tiburcio  had  called  in  Jacque- 
line to  help. 

"Now,"  said  the  marchioness,  settling  herself  for  a  treat,  "I 
must  know.  Tame  for  me  the  miracle,  explain  it.  I  cannot 
longer  hold  my  curiosity.  But  it  was  fine — exquis — however 
you  have  done  it!" 

"Weren't  they  a  surprised  lot,  though?" 

"  But  the  miracle,  monsieur !    The  miracle ! " 

"Well,  it  was  this  way.  Being  on  the  yawning  brink — as 
old  Meagre  Shanks,  friend  of  mine,  would  say — I  figured  it  out 
that  lacking  in  godliness,  I'd  try  to  get  the  next  best  thing." 

"Please,  monsieur!" 

"That  I'd  try  to  get  a  bath." 

"Of  dust  and  mud,  for  example?" 

At  that  Driscoll  ceased  all  miracle  taming  and  brushed 
himself  off.  But,  putting  him  back  into  his  dungeon,  one  will 
.  recall  how  he  plotted  to  obtain  two  jars  of  water.  This  water 


The  Person  on  the  Other  Horse  205 

he  used  simply  to  soften  the  hard,  sun-baked  adobes.  First 
he  hung  his  coat  over  the  window.  A  suspicious  guard  natur- 
ally wanted  to  know  why,  and  Driscoll  appeared  at  the  bars 
stripped  to  the  waist.  To  keep  out  the  cold  air  while  he 
bathed,  he  said,  and  his  teeth  chattered.  Then  he  went  back 
to  work.  He  handled  his  precious  water  with  desperate 
economy.  He  began  at  the  exposed  end  of  one  adobe  brick, 
soaking  it  as  needed  and  digging  it  out  with  a  chip  of  earthen- 
ware knocked  off  one  of  the  jars.  The  wall  was  two  adobe 
lengths  in  thickness,  but  after  he  had  gotten  out  his  first  brick, 
it  was  easy,  by  tugging  and  kicking,  to  tear  out  the  others  of 
the  inside  tier,  since  luckily  they  did  not  dovetail  in  with  the 
outer  ones.  Soon  he  had  an  arch-shaped  niche  in  the  wall 
almost  as  high  as  his  head  when  mounted  on  Demijohn.  The 
really  tedious  part  remained,  and  it  was  an  all  night  job. 

To  deepen  the  niche  without  breaking  through,  he  had  to 
scrape  it  out  piecemeal,  wetting  the  dried  mud  as  he  toiled. 
He  measured  carefully  just  how  much  of  the  thickness  to  leave, 
because  the  weed  stalks  in  the  adobe  could  not  be  trusted  to 
hold  too  thin  a  crust,  and  also  he  had  to  take  care  that  the 
water  did  not  soak  entirely  through  and  make  a  tell-tale  blot 
on  the  outside  when  daylight  should  come.  It  was  an  in- 
finitely laborious  task,  and  even  with  completion  at  last, 
there  was  yet  the  question — which  would  break  first,  bone  or 
masonry  ?  " 

But  he  would  learn  when  he  should  dash  his  horse's  skull 
and  his  own  against  the  shell  that  remained.  He  saddled 
Demijohn,  filled  an  empty  jar  with  the  soft  earth  of  his  excava- 
tions, and  waited.  His  dramatic  appearance  at  the  instant 
of  the  door's  opening  was  not  a  coincidence.  It  was  minute 
calculation.  Already  mounted,  he  faced  the  wall,  with  the 
heavy  jar  poised  over  his  head  in  both  hands,  his  spurs  drawn 
back  to  strike.  He  waited  until  sentinels  and  shooting  squad 
had  gathered  at  the  door.  He  waited  to  draw  their  fire,  to 


206  The  Missourian 

empty  their  muskets.  But  he  did  not  wait  until  the  door 
should  open  enough  to  give  them  unimpeded  aim.  In  the 
second  of  its  opening  he  drove  back  the  spurs,  hurled  the  jar 
against  the  wall,  and — crashed  through  his  dungeon  as  easily 
as  breaking  a  sucked  egg. 

"But,"  demanded  Jacqueline  eagerly,  "how  is  it  you  did 
feel?"  She  was  disappointed  that  the  personal  equation  had 
had  so  little  prominence. 

"I  don't  recollect,"  said  Driscoll,  puzzled,  "there  was  noth- 
ing hurting  especially." 

"No,  no!     Your  sensations  facing  death,  then  escaping?" 

He  brightened.  "W'y  yes,"  he  replied,  happy  to  catch  her 
meaning.  "I  felt  toler'ble  busy." 

She  sighed  despairingly.  Yet  there  was  plenty  left  her  for 
wonderment,  and  in  it  she  revelled. 

" Ingenuity  1"  she  mused.  "I  declare,  I  believe  the  first 
human  being  to  stand  up  on  his  hind  legs  must  have  been  an 
American.  It  simply  occurred  to  him  one  day  that  he  didn't 
need  all  fours  for  walking,  and  that  he  might  as  well  use  his 
before-feet  for  something  else." 

"And  a  Frenchman,  Miss  Jack-leen?" 

She  flung  up  her  hands. 

"He  I  "  she  exclaimed.  "If  ever  a  compatriot  of  mine  had 
gotten  that  idea  into  his — how  you  say? — pate,  would  he  not 
carry  it  out  to  the  idiotic  limit,  yes?  He?  He  would  try  to 
walk  without  any  feet  whatever,  and  use  all  of  them  for  other 
things.  Already  you  have  seen  him  doing  the,  the  pugilat — the 
box — with  every  one  of  his  fours.  Voila! " 

But  time  was  passing.  Lopez  had  certainly  repaired  his 
girths  by  this  time.  Driscoll  arose.  "There's  a  shorter  way 
back,"  he  announced.  "The  river  junction  can't  be  far  down 
stream,  and  I'll  wait  for  you  there,  Miss  Jack-leen,  while  you 
scout  on  ahead  to  the  hacienda  house.  If  all's  clear,  you  signal 
and  I  will  advance  with  the  heavy  cavalry." 


The  Person  on  the  Other  Horse  207 

"C'est  bien,  mon  colonel." 

"Whatever  that  means,  I  hope  it  ain't  mutiny." 

At  best  it  was  only  mock  compliance.  Jacqueline  also 
knew  that  time  was  passing,  but  she  had  not  mentioned  the 
fact.  Now  the  reason  transpired.  She  harked  back  on  their 
separation,  with  a  grave  earnestness  and  a  saddened  air  of 
finality.  He  was  to  leave  her  here,  she  said.  He  was  to  go 
back  to  his  own  country.  How  badly  had  his  reception  fared 
so  far  ?  Why  not,  then,  leave  Mexico  to  ingratitude,  and  have 
done?  The  romantic  land  of  roses  was  notoriously  a  blight 
to  hopes.  Why  should  he  seek  to  thrive  despite  the  mysterious 
curse  that  seemed  to  hover  over  all  things  like  a  deadly  miasma  ? 

Driscoll  shook  his  head.  "You  know  I  have  come  to  see 
Maximilian." 

"But  you  are  under  sentence.     You  will  lose  your  life." 

"Miss  Jack-leen,  you  said  a  while  back  that  I  was  your 
prisoner.  You  have  the  Austrian  escort.  All  right.  You 
will  deliver  me  to  the  Emperor,"  and  he  waved  his  hand  as 
though  the  matter  was  arranged. 

"But  monsieur,"  she  cried  "may  not  others  have  plans 
as  vital  as  yours  ?  And,  perhaps — yes,  you  interfere." 

He  did  interfere,  in  grimmest  truth.  Leaving  the  Sphinx  of 
the  Tuileries,  she  had  come  with  her  mission,  and  with  an  idea, 
too,  of  the  obstacles  that  must  be  vanquished.  But  here, 
almost  at  landing,  she  encountered  a  barrier  left  out  of  her 
calculations,  and  which  alone,  unaided,  she  had  to  surmount. 
It  was  the  surrender  of  the  Confederacy,  and  what  this  upset- 
ting complication  meant  against  her  own  errand  was  embodied 
in  the  man  before  her.  For  in  him  lay  the  results  of  the  Sur- 
render as  affecting  the  Mexican  empire.  In  a  word,  he 
brought  aid  for  Maximilian  at  the  moment  when  Maximilian 
might  be  discouraged  enough  to  give  way  to  France;  when 
the  forgetful  prince  might  gladly  leave  all  to  the  generous 
nation  which  had  placed  him  on  his  throne  and  which  by  him 


208  The  Missourian 

was  cheated  of  the  reward  of  its  costly  empire  building.  Should 
the  French  threaten  to  withdraw,  should  they  in  reality  with- 
draw, still  he  would  not  abdicate,  not  with  Confederate  veterans 
to  replace  the  pantalons  rouges.  Like  the  dog  of  the  fable, 
Maximilian  would  cling  to  the  manger. 

"Oui,  oui,  monsieur,"  she  repeated  sharply,  "you  inter- 
fere!" 

"In  that  case,"  said  Driscoll  quietly,  "  I  will  leave  you  at 
the  river  junction.  When  I  see  that  you  are  safely  at  the 
hacienda " 

"You  will  go  back  to  America?" 

"That  need  not  worry  you." 

"Then  you  are  not  going  back,  back  to  your  own  country?" 
He  would  keep  on  to  the  City  alone.  She  would  have  no  chance 
to  intercept  him.  After  all  Fate  had  been  good  to  her — no, 
cruel! — to  cast  him  in  her  path.  "You  might  find  the  Austrian 
escort  safer  than  going  alone,"  she  said  enticingly. 

He  hesitated.  What  all  this  was  about,  he  could  not  imagine. 
He  knew  nothing,  naturally,  of  the  dark  intrigues  of  an  enig- 
matical adventurer  far  away  in  the  Tuileries,  nor  how  they 
could  affect  him.  And  so  he  put  away  as  absurd  the  fancy 
that  she  in  her  turn  might  interfere  with  him.  Besides,  he  was 
tempted. 

"It's  a  go!"  he  said. 

She  for  her  part  was  thinking,  hoping,  rather,  that  perhaps 
she  was  mistaken.  Perhaps  he  only  bore  the  offer  of  a  paltry 
few  hundred,  a  handful  of  homeseekers  from  his  regiment. 
She  hoped  so.  She  would  have  prayed  for  it,  had  praying  oc- 
curred to  her. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  STRANGEST  AVOWAL  or  LOVE 

"  Nae  living  man  I'll  love  again, 
Since  that  my  lovely  knight  is  slain." 

— Lament  of  the  Border  Widow. 

BACK  once  more  at  the  hacienda,  Driscoll  recovered  his 
coat  still  hanging  over  the  dungeon  window.  Lopez  would 
have  called  it  insolence,  had  he  been  there  instead  of  scouring 
the  country  toward  Mexico.  Jacqueline  and  Berthe  settled 
themselves  in  the  traveling  coach  left  for  their  comfort  by 
Maximilian.  Driscoll's  effects,  including  his  gray  cape-coat 
and  the  bundle  he  had  carried  behind  his  saddle,  were  found 
in  his  room  at  the  House.  Jacqueline  took  them  into  the 
carriage  with  her,  along  with  that  absurd  little  valise  that  she 
had  brought  from  the  ship  for  an  hour's  jaunt  on  shore.  Dris- 
coll rode  with  Ney  and  the  Austrians,  and  was  once  again 
headed  toward  the  capital,  still  sixty  fair  Mexican  leagues 
southward. 

For  six  days  it  was  an  uneventful  journey,  seemingly.  By 
day  there  were  sierras,  and  valleys,  and  wayside  crosses  mark- 
ing violent  deaths.  By  night  they  accepted  either  ranchero 
hospitality  or  put  up.  at  some  village  meson.  But  within 
himself,  adventures  were  continuous  and  varying  for  the 
Storm  Centre.  He  could  not  account  for  the  strange,  curious 
elation  that  possessed  him,  especially  when  Jacqueline  would 
take  Ney's  horse  and  ride  at  his  side,  perhaps  for  an  hour, 
when  the  sun  was  not  too  hot.  Driscoll  never  knew  how  long 
these  occasions  lasted.  He  did  not  know  that  they  were  long 

209 


210  The  Missourian 

at  all.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  ceased  using  ordinary 
standards  of  measurement.  The  universe,  and  sordid  acces- 
sories such  as  time,  radiated  entirely  about  one  little  velvet  patch 
near  a  dimple  satellite. 

There  came  to  be  long  silences  between  them  as  they  rode, 
either  boy  or  girl  content  to  have  it  so,  and  neither  the  least  bit 
lonesome.  And  they  talked  too,  naturally,  though  this  was 
not  so  significant.  She  would  slyly  provoke  him.  To  her 
mind,  there  was  never  anyone  quite  so  satisfying  at  a  quarrel. 
She  would  pause  in  delighted  expectancy  to  see  his  eyes  grow 
big  when  she  thrust,  and  then  to  see  his  mouth  twitch  at  the 
corners  as  he  caught  her  blade  on  his  own  keen  wit.  She 
had  forgotten  that  he  was  rustic,  except  for  the  added  zest  it 
gave.  Nor  was  there  a  false  note  in  him,  so  happily  and 
totally  unconscious  was  he  of  self.  And  as  for  a  certain 
gaucherie,  that  was  the  spice  to  his  whole  manner. 

They  talked  of  many  things;  rather,  she  made  him  talk. 
She  learned  that  his  name  was  John,  as  hers  was  Jeanne,  and 
she  wanted  to  know  why  the  horse  was  Demijohn. 

"Because,  Miss  Jack-leen,"  he  answered,  "he's  my  other 
half,  and  sometimes  the  better  one,  too."  He  remembered 
that  once,  when  he  had  drooped  limp  over  the  saddle,  the 
buckskin  had  carried  him  out  of  the  fighting  to  the  rear.  "You 
see,"  he  added,  "we  were  both  colts  when  our  little  shindy  up 
there  broke  loose." 

"And  you  both  went?  Ah,  Monsieur  the  Patriot,  you  did 
go,  you  did  affront  the  tyrant ?  Yes! "  She  had  the  explorer's 
eagerness.  Perhaps  she  might  discover  in  him  her  own 
especial  demon  of  self-introspection. 

"N-o,"  he  replied,  "I  reckon  we  went  mostly  for  the  fun  of 
the  thing." 

"Fi  done!"  she  cried.  "But  wait  till  you  are  old.  Oh 
yes,  we  have  them  too,  those  blessed,  over-petted  veterans 
of  the  Grande  Armee.  They  are  in  the  Hotel  des  Invalides, 


The  Strangest  Avowal  of  Love  211 

with  medals  to  diagnose  their  glory.  Oh,  la,  la,  but  there's  a 
pleasant  fashion!  The  people,  the  politicians,  they  forget  the 
hot  blood  that  fought  simply  because  there  were  pretty  blows 
to  strike.  They  see  only  the  gray  hairs.  'Honneur  aux 
patriotes!'  You  wait,  monsieur.  You,  too,  will  be  made  into 
the  hero,  ex  post  facto,  and  you  will  believe  it  yourself.  Yes, 
with  the  wolves,  one  learns  to  howl." 

"N-o,"  said  the  young  Confederate,  "we — we  got  licked." 

They  talked — he  rather — of  Missouri.  He  was  not  reluc- 
tant to  have  stirred  the  memories  of  his  home,  not  with  one  who 
could  listen  as  she  did.  In  his  heart  settled  a  warmth  that 
was  good,  and  the  glow  of  it  shone  on  his  face.  He  became 
aware  that  the  gray  eyes  were  upon  him,  taking  conscious  note 
of  his  hair,  his  mouth,  his  chin,  as  though  she  were  really  seeing 
him  for  the  first  time.  What  made  a  girl  do  that  way?  He 
felt  queerly,  it  being  thus  brought  to  him  that  he  had  awakened 
interest  in  a  woman,  but  the  tribute  she  paid  him  was  ennobling, 
and  a  deep  thankfulness,  though  to  whom  or  for  what  he  had 
not  the  least  idea,  made  more  kindly  and  good  the  cheery 
warmth  around  his  heart.  The  gray  eyes  had  never  sparkled 
on  him  in  coquetry  as  they  sometimes  did  on  other  men,  and 
now  they  were  grave  and  sweet.  It  was  a  phase  of  Jacqueline 
that  only  her  maid  had  known. 

The  marquise  gathered  that  Missour-j,  as  she  called  it,  was 
an  exceedingly  strange  and  fascinating  region.  She  learned 
that  it  was  a  state,  like  a  department  in  France,  like  her  own 
Bourbonnais  for  instance.  But  there  the  comparison  ended. 
The  rest  was  all  startling  versatility.  For  the  inhabitants  had 
not  only  taken  both  sides  during  the  Civil  War,  but  through 
their  governor  had  proclaimed  themselves  an  independent 
republic  into  the  bargain.  They  must  be  unusual  citizens, 
those  Missourians. 

But  they  were  strangest  because  they  did  not  seem  to  be 
actors.  They  did  not  refine  living  into  a  cult,  with  every 


212  The  Missourian 

pleasure  and  pain  classified  and  weighed  out  and  valued.  No, 
they  actually  lived.  It  was  hard  to  realize  this,  but  in  the  end 
she  did,  and  with  ever  increasing  wonder,  with  also  a  begin- 
ning of  envy  and  hunger.  But  there  was  still  another  thing 
even  more  indefinable.  It  centered  in  the  word  "home," 
which  she  knew  neither  in  French  nor  Spanish,  but  which  she 
came  to  know  now,  as  its  meaning  grew  upon  her.  It  was 
more  than  a  "maison"  or  a  "casa,"  or  a  "chez  nous."  It 
was  a  manner  of  temple.  And  the  high  priest  there  was  a 
grim  lord.  How  very  grim,  indeed!  There  was  no  com- 
promise, no  blinking,  no  midway  gilded  dais  between  the  mar- 
riage altar  and  the  basest  filth.  As  grim,  this  was,  as  that 
original  Puritanism  which  has  become  a  synonym  of  American 
backbone.  Grim,  yes;  but  the  woman  there,  where  the  high 
priest  blinked  not,  was  a  divinity.  She  was  a  divinity  in  the 
tenderest  and  most  devoted  sense  of  the  word.  And  the 
Puritanism  was  purity  enshrined,  as  a  simple  matter  of  course. 
The  longing,  if  only  to  know  more  of  this  odd  country,  rose 
in  her  mysteriously,  and  stronger  and  stronger. 

When  on  one  occasion  she  went  back  to  the  coach,  she  found 
that  Berthe  also  was  enjoying  the  change  to  horseback.  Jacque- 
line was  glad  of  it.  Now  she  could  be  alone,  and  she  believed 
that  she  wanted  to  think.  But  she  could  not  pin  down  what 
she  wanted  to  think  about;  because,  no  doubt,  there  was  so 
very  much.  Instead,  she  looked  vacantly  at  the  Storm  Cen- 
tre's cartridge  belt  and  pistols  on  the  seat  in  front  of  her.  They 
were  grim,  too,  these  playthings  of  a  boy. 

Dupin  had  left  the  weapons  with  Ney,  back  at  the  hacienda, 
and  Ney  had  turned  them  over  to  Jacqueline  as  to  the  real  strat- 
egic chief  of  the  expedition.  And  Jacqueline  had  kept  them, 
perhaps  to  look  at,  perhaps  because  of  a  whim  that  a  prisoner 
should  not  be  armed.  She  liked  to  hear  Driscoll  mourn  for 
them,  not  knowing  where  they  were,  and  she  held  back  the 
surprise  as  one  lingers  before  an  anticipated  pleasure.  She 


The  Strangest  Avowal  of  Love  213 

picked  up  the  great,  black  revolvers  with  a  woman's  fascinated 
respect  for  the  harsh,  eternal  male  of  her  species,  who  is  prim- 
eval and  barbaric  yet,  and  ever  will  be,  to  hold  his  mate  his 
very  own.  Her  touch  was  gingerly,  but  there  was  a  caress  in 
her  fingers  on  the  ugly  things. 

She  lifted  the  belt.  How  heavy  of  metal  it  was!  Idly,  she 
thought  she  would  count  the  leaden  missiles.  When  finally 
she  laid  the  belt  aside,  a  bullet  remained  in  her  lap.  It  had 
fallen  there  out  of  its  shell.  Starting  to  fit  the  bullet  in  again, 
she  suddenly  dropped  both  bullet  and  cartridge.  Her  hands 
trembled.  This  particular  shell  contained  no  powder.  But 
it  contained  a  tightly  rolled  slip  of  oiled  paper.  The  cartridge 
was  a  dummy,  a  wee  strong  box  for  some  vital  document. 

It  was  not  for  scruples  against  looking  that  she  paused.  On 
the  contrary,  it  was  that  she  must  look,  absolutely,  in  sacred, 
patriotic  duty  bound,  that  finally  decided — nay,  compelled  her 
to  look.  Still  she  hesitated  before  drawing  out  the  paper. 
She  dreaded  what  it  might  tell  her.  Concealed  thus,  and 
revealed  only  by  a  hazard,  the  paper  held,  she  felt  certain,  the 
secret  and  the  significance  of  the  American's  errand  to  Mexico. 
And  she  did  not  want  to  know.  She  reviled  bitterly  the 
cruel  chance  that  had  thrust  it  on  her. 

She  read.  The  paper  was  a  communication  addressed  to 
the  Emperor  Maximilian  by  the  Confederate  generals  of  the 
Trans-Mississippi  department.  Foreseeing  Lee's  surrender, 
they  had  gathered  from  Louisiana,  Arkansas,  and  Texas,  at  a 
place  in  the  latter  state  named  Marshall,  and  there  they  had 
decided  that  they  would  not  surrender.  .  They  would  seek 
homes  and  a  country  elsewhere,  swords  in  hand.  At  this 
meeting,  which  had  been  inspired  by  Gen.  Joe  Shelby,  they 
had  deposed  the  cautious  general  commanding,  Kirby  Smith, 
and  they  had  put  in  his  stead  Simon  Bolivar  Buckner.  The 
Trans-Mississippi  department  numbered  fifty  thousand  men. 
There  would  also  be  fugitives  from  Lee's  and  Johnson's  corps, 


2i4  The  Missourian 

besides  Jefferson  Davis  in  person,  should  he  contrive  to  pass 
the  Federal  lines.  Many  thousands  of  veterans  would  shortly 
be  marching  across  the  Rio  Grande.  In  Texas,  at  the  Con- 
federate arsenals  and  depositories,  they  would  seize  what  they 
needed:  guns,  ammunition,  horses,  provisions,  money.  In 
Mexico  they  would  become  citizens,  and  they  would  defend 
their  new  homes  against  outlawry,  rebellion,  or  invasion.  The 
signatory  generals  prayed  the  Emperor  Maximilian  to  consider 
this,  and  "to  do  it  quick." 

Jacqueline  put  the  letter  back  in  the  cartridge,  and  every- 
thing looked  as  before.  But  no  genii,  once  out,  can  ever  quite 
be  bottled  up  again.  That  stray  bullet  had  wounded  her  to 
the  heart. 

"As  bad  as  fifty  thousand!"  she  cried  half  aloud.  "And 
they  will  become  citizens,  too. — Mon  Dieu,  that  is  a  nation!" 

With  them  Maximilian  would  have  a  people  behind  him, 
and  his  throne  would  be  as  a  rock.  He  could,  and  most  cer- 
tainly would,  disdain  the  French  army  of  occupation  with  its 
thirty  thousand  bayonets.  The  French  might  go  back  home. 
He  would  speed  them  cheerfully,  and  henceforth  be  Emperor 
in  fact. 

"But  our  treasure  and  our  dead,"  sighed  Jacqueline  bit- 
terly, "we  cannot  take  them  back.  No,  nor  our  hopes,  though 
they  weigh  little  enough  now,  for  that  matter.  Oh  dear,  and 
/  am  one  of  those  hopes! — Help  me  Heaven,  else  I  shall  hate 
my  own  country.  Oh,  I  must  be  true! — Now,  why  couldn't 
those  Missourians  have  sent — someone  else?" 

That  evening  she  held  a  pen,  but  it  would  not  move,  not 
while  her  thoughts  were  upon  it.  So,  by  sheer  will,  she  nerved 
herself  not  to  think,  and  wrote  mechanically.  She  wrote  a 
message  to  Lopez,  and  another  to  Dupin,  and  yet  a  third. 
The  third  brought  the  tears  long  before  it  was  finished.  An 
Austrian  took  the  first  two,  and  rode  all  that  night.  She  kept 
the  other  one  herself. 


The  Strangest  Avowal  of  Love  215 

This  was  the  fifth  day  of  their  journey  since  leaving  Murguia's 
hacienda.  They  had  taken  pains  to  keep  behind  Lopez.  Their 
pursuer,  ahead  of  them,  had  not  made  twenty  miles  the  first  day, 
for  he  had  delayed  in  order  to  search  here  and  there.  But  the 
second  day,  he  had  evidently  accepted  failure,  and  hastened 
on  to  overtake  the  Emperor.  The  Emperor  himself,  after 
traveling  constantly  for  a  night  and  a  day,  had  rested  a  night  and 
half  a  day  to  reflect  on  his  late  energy,  and  thereafter  he  was 
proceeding  as  roadside  ovations  would  permit.  Accordingly 
on  this,  the  fifth  night,  Lopez  was  close  behind  the  Emperor, 
and  both  were  within  a  day  of  the  capital,  and  less  than  a  day 
ahead  of  Driscoll,  Jacqueline  and  Ney. 

All  the  next  day  Jacqueline  kept  to  her  coach.  She  was 
cross  or  nervously  excited  or  melancholy,  and  by  erratic  turns 
in  every  mood  that  was  hopelessly  downcast,  until  her  maid 
became  well  nigh  frantic.  At  first  Ney  would  hover  near  in 
helpless  concern,  but  she  ordered  him  away  angrily.  How- 
ever, the  storm  broke  at  last  when  Driscoll  reined  in  and  waited 
at  the  roadside.  She  could  see  him  through  the  little  front 
pane  of  glass  as  the  carriage  drew  nearer,  and  she  watched 
with  a  fierce  hunger  in  her  eyes.  All  the  time  she  stirred  in 
greater  agitation,  and  her  breath  came  more  and  more  quickly. 
At  the  very  last  moment,  when  a  second  later  he  might  have 
seen  her,  she  sprang  to  the  window,  looked  once  again,  then  in 
a  fury  snatched  at  the  shade  and  jerked  it  down.  Driscoll 
paused  uncertain,  but  wheeled  and  galloped  back  to  the  head 
of  the  column.  Berthe  turned  to  her  mistress.  She  was  lying 
weakly  against  the  cushions,  staring  at  nothing  and  panting 
for  air. 

Toward  dusk  they  reached  Tuxtla,  a  little  pueblo  on  the 
highroad  set  mid  maguey  farms  that  made  the  rolling  hill 
slopes  of  Anahuac  look  like  a  giant's  cabbage  patch.  In  the 
distance,  under  two  snow-capped  peaks  beyond,  the  mosaic 
domes  and  sandstone  towers  and  painted  walls  of  the  capital 


2l6 


The  Missourian 


glittered  in  the  setting  sun  like  some  picture  of  an 
Arabian  city  vaguely  known  to  memory.  The  travelers 
were  not  a  dozen  miles  from  their  destination,  but 
Berthe  announced  that  madame  her  mistress  would  rest 
at  Tuxtla  for  the  night. 

The  Austrians  were  quartered  in  the  village,  and  Ney  and 
Driscoll  found  accommodations  for  the  two  girls  and  them- 
selves farther  down  the  road,  at  the  house  of  a  maguey  grower 
whom  they  persuaded  to  vacate.  While  it  was  still  light  Driscoll 
amused  himself  strolling  alone  between  the  rows  of  the  great 
century  plants.  Under  their  leaves,  curving  high  above  his 
head,  he  watched  peons  with  gourds  suck  out  the  honey  water 
from  the  onion-like  bulbs  into  goatskin  bags.  After  a  time  he 
wandered  through  the  hacendado's  primitive  distillery  and  on 
back  to  the  house,  with  a  feeling  for  supper. 

As  he  entered,  he  heard  the  clanking  of  a  sabre  in  the  dark 
room.  He  thought  nothing  of  it,  but  almost  at  once  something 
cut  through  the  air  and  a  noose  fell  over  him.  He  swung 
round,  but  the  rope  jerked  tight  about  his  knees,  and  he  lurched 
and  swayed  as  an  oak  before  the  axe.  He  struck  with  his  fist 
and  had  a  groan  for  reward,  but  a  second  lariat  circled  his 
shoulders  and  bound  his  arms  to  his  body.  As  he  went  down 
under  the  weight  of  men,  the  shutters  were  thrown  open,  and 
he  looked  up  into  the  red-lidded  eyes  of  Colonel  Lopez.  A 
troop  of  cavalry  was  passing  on  the  road  outside,  and  he  caught 
the  sound  of  wheels  departing. 

"You  hear?"  said  Lopez.  "The  marquesa  is  going  to  the 
City,  having  decided  not  to  wait  for  you.  But  she  leaves  a  note, 
pour  prendre  conge",  eh  ?  You  will  perhaps  have  time  to  read 
it  before  the  shooting." 

Once  more  Driscoll  found  himself  in  an  adobe  with  a  sput- 
tering candle  for  company.  But  he  also  had  her  note.  It 
was  the  third  of  the  messages  which  she  had  written  the  night 
before. 


The  Strangest  Avowal  of  Love  217 

"Monsieur,"  it  began,  "I  cannot  let  you  die  without  telling 
you  that  it  was  I  who  betrayed " 

He  jumped  to  his  feet.  "Oh — the  pythoness!"  he  breathed 
fervently. 

" who  betrayed  you,"  the  letter  read.  "That  you  know 

this,  monsieur,  that  your  last  thought  shall  be  a  curse  at  me, 
such  will  be  my  punishment.  It  is  a  self  inflicted  one,  because 
you  need  not  have  known  what  I  have  done.  The  telling  of 
this  to  you  is  my  scourge,  but  it  is  not  penitence.  Worse  and 
more  unbearable  is  my  sorrow  that  the  penitence  will  never 
come,  that  I  can  feel  no  remorse,  no  more  than  if  some  inevita- 
ble thing,  like  the  fever,  had  taken  you.  I  would  always  do 
again  what  I  have  just  done;  as  pitiless  as  I  must  be  for  you, 
Fate  is  for  me.  Your  life,  monsieur,  is  but  added  to  the 
hundreds  already  snuffed  out  in  this  country  for  France's  sake. 
Those  hundreds  are  my  countrymen,  and  you,  if  you  lived  till 
to-morrow,  would  make  their  offering  useless.  I  have  tried  to 
save  you,  monsieur,  but  you  would  not  permit.  You  would 
not  return  to  your  own  country,  and — there  was  no  other  way. 
But  do  not  think  there  will  come  emissaries  in  your  place.  Do 
not  believe  that  I  would  so  send  you  to  death  needlessly.  There 
will  be  no  emissaries  after  you.  Your  Confederates  shall  know 
that  Maximilian's  court  martial  executed  you,  and  is  it  that 
your  compatriotes  will  then  desire  to  help  Maximilian  ?  Believe 
— only  believe,  monsieur — that  it  is  a  cruel  duty  not  permitting 
that  I  shall  listen  to  my  heart.  If  you  but  knew,  if  you  but 
knew — and  you  shall  know.  Monsieur  Driscoll — oh,  mon 
chevalier,  it  is  that  I  love  you.  There,  know  then,  dear  heart 
cheri,  the  enormity  of  my  sacrifice.  Know  the  necessity  of  it. 
Know  that  I  envy  you,  for  you  are  going,  and  I  must  stay,  all 
alone,  without  you.  Mon  bien  aime",  without  you,  through 
all  my  long  life!" 

She  had  signed  it  simply,  "Jacqueline." 

Again  Driscoll  was  on  his  feet.     He  paced  up  and  down  the 


21$,  The  Missourian 

room.  "There's  one  thing,"  he  muttered,  "and  that  is, 
there's  nothing  between  her  and  Maximilian,  not  when  she's 
keeping  help  from  him."  And  on  he  paced,  his  fists  opening 
and  clenching.  Suddenly  he  came  to  a  dead  halt. 

"By  God,"  he  cried,  "I'm  not  going  to  be  shot,  no  sir,  not 
now,  not  after — not  after  this  letter!" 

Here  was  neither  boy  nor  warrior.  It  was  very  much  in  the 
way  of  a  lover. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
BERTHE 

"II  y  a  deui  etres  en  nous:  1'acteur  et  le  spectateur." 

— Sienkiewicz. 

THE  same  evening,  though  two  hours  later,  a  public  hack 
entered  an  outlying  quarter  of  the  City  of  Mexico  called  San 
Cosme,  and  drew  up  before  a  white  mansion  with  beautiful 
gardens.  A  young  girl  with  soft  brown  hair  and  gentle  eyes 
got  out,  ran  to  the  door,  and  brought  down  the  ponderous 
knocker  so  terrifically  that  it  abashed  her,  for  all  her  present 
agitation.  To  the  flunkey,  who  noted  the  public  hack  and  was 
reproachful,  she  said,  "I  must  see  His  Excellency.  Here, 
I  have  written  my  name  on  Mademoiselle  d'Aumerle's  card. 
I  am  her  maid.  Say  to  Monsieur  le  Marechal  that  he  will 
regret  it,  if  I  do  not  see  him  at  once.  Quick  now,  you!" 

If  possessed  of  guile,  Berthe  could  not  have  done  better. 
With  Jacqueline's  card,  used  only  because  it  had  a  blank 
side,  her  admittance  was  certain  and  immediate. 

She  passed  the  lackey  into  a  luxurious  apartment,  Marshal 
Bazaine's  private  cabinet.  At  one  end  there  was  a  Japanese 
screen  with  a  lamp  behind,  and  at  intervals  came  the  sound 
of  someone  turning  the  leaves  of  a  book.  But  Berthe  thought 
solely  of  her  errand.  The  marshal,  thick  necked,  heavy 
cheeked  and  stocky,  was  standing,  waiting  for  her. 

"So,"  he  exclaimed,  "milady  is  arrived,  eh,  and  you  bring 
me  her  commands?" 

"No,  Your  Excellency,  my  mistress  does  not  know  that  I  am 

here.     When  she  learns,  she  will  dismiss  me.     I '; 

219 


22o  The  Missourian 

The  marshal  of  France  grew  cold.  "It  was  a  decoy  then, 
the  card  you  used?"  he  interrupted.  "And  was  that  one 
also,  young  woman,  when  you  threatened  that  I  should  re- 
gret  " 

"You  will  indeed  regret,  monsieur,  if  you  do  not  let  me 
speak.  There's  a  mistake  to  correct  if — if  it's  not  too 
late." 

The  chief  of  the  Army  of  Occupation  shrugged  his  shoulders 
until  the  back  of  his  neck  folded  over  itself.  He  had  been 
correcting  mistakes  ever  since  Maximilian's  landing.  But 
he  was  a  child  of  the  people  himself,  and  the  distress  in  her 
eyes  made  him  patient.  "Well,  what  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"It  is  an  American.     They  will  shoot  him,  monsieur!" 

"Ah,  one  who  interests  the  young  person  now  before  me, 
eh?" 

"And  I  want  you  to  stop  them,  monsieur!    I  want " 

"Child,  child,  whom  am  I  to  stop?" 

"Colonel  Lopez,  monsieur.  The  American  escaped  once, 
but  mademoiselle  gave  him  up  again.  He'd  saved  made- 
moiselle's life,  too.  And  mine." 

The  veteran  soldier  rubbed  his  finger  tips  on  his  bald,  bullet- 
like  head.  "He  saves  her,  and  she  gives  him  to  Lopez.  He 
must  be  an  important  species  of  American!". 

"Yes,  yes,  monsieur." 

"There,  don't  worry.  His  Majesty  will  pardon  your  friend 
to-morrow — if,"  he  added  to  himself,  "only  from  habit." 

"But  Lopez  will  shoot  him  before  the  Emperor  knows." 

The  marshal  had  shrewd  eyes,  and  now  they  opened  wide. 
"Getting  more  important,  our  American!"  he  grumbled  un- 
easily. "Berthe,  did  your  mistress  know  that  Lopez  would 
shoot  him  before  he  could  be  pardoned  ? " 

"Oh  yes,  monsieur." 

"Name  of  a  name,  what  does  she  want  him  killed  for? 
Why  is  this  dr61e  of  a  Lopez  in  such  a  hurry? — See  here, 


" BERTHE " 

Brought  down  the  ponderous  knocker  so  terrifically  that  it  abashed 
her,  for  all  her  present  agitation  " 


Berthe  221 

child,  you  know  something  more.  What  did  you  mean  by  my 
regretting " 

"Because,  because  everybody  seemed  to  think  that  the  poor 
brave  American  had  come  with  an  offer  of  aid  for  Maximilian, 
and  as  you  need  more  troops,  I  thought " 

"Who,  in  all  mercy,  is  this  American?" 

"A  Confederate  officer,  monsieur." 

Not  one  man,  but  two,  paced  the  floor  because  of  Jacqueline 
that  evening.  The  second  was  the  marshal  of  France,  and  he 
went  at  it  now,  on  hearing  of  the  first  man.  "A  Confederate 
officer?"  There  were  twin  creases  over  his  straight  nose, 
furrows  of  vexed  and  intense  thinking.  The  lone  Southerner 
was  linked  intimately  in  his  reflections  with  the  parliament  of  a 
great  nation.  The  people  of  France  had  never  warmed  to  the 
Mexican  dream,  and  the  Chambers  already  were  clamoring 
for  the  return  of  the  troops.  And  now,  for  every  Confederate 
enlisted,  a  pantalon  rouge  could  be  sent  back  home.  But 
why — name  of  a  name — should  Jacqueline  try  to  prevent? 

"Did  she,"  he  asked,  but  not  very  hopefully,  "did  she  have 
any  cause  to  dislike  this  American?" 

"Oh,  monsieur!"  The  cry  was  pained  surprise.  That 
her  mistress  could  or  would  pay  a  grudge!  " On  the  contrary," 
she  protested  vehemently,  "I  have  never  seen  her  so  moved, 
never,  and  if  you  had  seen  her,  monsieur,  as  we  left  Tuxtla! 
I  thought  she  must  surely  lose  her  mind.  One  cannot  imagine 
her  terror.  She  cried  to  the  driver,  to  the  outriders,  to  lash 
the  mules,  harder,  faster,  till  it's  a  miracle  we  did  not  crash 
over  a  cliff.  And  all  the  time  she  would  look  back,  and  at 
every  sound  she  would  clap  her  hands  over  her  ears  and  cry 
out  to  know  if  that  was  shooting.  And  then  she  would  pound 
at  the  window  to  them  to  go  faster.  She  wanted  to  get  out  of 
hearing,  monsieur.  It  was  only  when  we  were  really  here  in 
the  City  that  she  quieted,  but  that  was  worse.  She  lay  and 
moaned.  I  cried,  I  could  not  help  it,  hearing  her.  She  would 


222  The  Missourian 

mutter  things,  too.  'France,  France!'  she  said  once,  and  it 
made  me  shudder.  One  almost  thought  she  had  a  dagger  in 
her  hand " 

"Never  mind,  what  else  did  she  say?" 

"She  said,  'Oh,  I  hate  thee,  my  country!'  but  she  wasn't 
in  her  mind,  oh  no,  monsieur.  Then  she  grew  very  still,  and 
that  frightened  me  more  yet.  Once  I  even  thought  she  was 
dead,  and  I  put  my  arm  about  her.  But  her  heart  was  beating, 
and  her  eyes  were  open,  wide  open  and  dry.  I  could  see,  for 
we  were  passing  between  the  Paseo  lights.  I  laid  her  head  on 
my  breast,  and  after  a  while  I  heard  her  lips  move.  'God 
bless  him!  God — Oh,  I  hope  there  is  a  God,  just  for  this,  to 
bless  him,  and  keep  him!'" 

"H'm'm,"  said  the  marshal,  and  went  back  and  forth  again, 
more  perplexed  than  ever. 

Berthe  watched  him  anxiously,  jealous  of  each  moment  lost. 
Once  she  started  to  speak,  but  his  gesture  for  silence  was  such 
that  she  did  not  dare  a  second  time.  There  was  no  other 
sound  in  the  room  except  the  tramp,  tramp  on  the  soft  carpet. 
Even  the  occasional  turning  of  a  leaf  behind  the  screen  had 
ceased.  Bazaine  was  groping  cautiously  in  the  mystery.  A 
state  reason,  and  no  personal  one,  had  compelled  Jacqueline; 
that  much  was  certain.  Direct  from  the  Tuileries,  she  was 
weighted  under  some  grievous  responsibility,  and  this  night, 
back  there  at  Tuxtla,  she  had  been  true  to  it.  And  whatever 
it  was,  it  exacted  imperatively  that  no  Confederate  aid  should 
reach  Maximilian.  Such  was  Napoleon's  wish,  however 
contradictory  to  official  instructions.  But  the-  marshal  was 
sufficiently  a  disciple  of  the  little  Napoleonic  statecraft  to 
beware  of  meddling.  He  fretted  under  methods  whereby  the 
whisper  of  the  Sphinx  reached  him  through  private  and  un- 
official agents,  but  it  was  a  great  deal  to  catch  the  Sphinx's 
whisper  at  all.  Besides,  he  owed  his  elevation  to  this  enigma 
of  Europe,  and  he  meant  to  be  loyal. 


Berthe  223 

"Berthe,"  he  said  at  last,  "there's  just  one  man  who  can 
interfere  where  Mademoiselle  d'Aumerle  disposes,  but  he  is 
rather  far  away.  I  mean  the  Emperor  of  France." 

The  little  Bretonne  looked,  comprehended,  and  burst  into 
tears.  "My  dear  mistress!"  she  sobbed. 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  book  dropped  on  a  table,  and  the 
screen  was  brushed  aside. 

"Perhaps,"  came  a  softly  ironical  voice,  "a  woman  might  so 
much  as  veto  our  mighty  Jacqueline.  At  any  rate,  suppose  we 
try  it,  Don  Pancho." 

Bazaine  had  forgotten  his  wrTe,  his  bride,  who,  to  be  near 
him,  often  retired  behind  the  screen  when  he  was  busy  with 
others.  Hers  was  the  loving  ambition  of  a  Lady  Macbeth, 
in  that  a  husband's  secret  was  never  one  for  her. 

"Step  into  this  little  room,"  she  said  to  Berthe,  opening  a 
door.  "It  will  not  take  long,"  she  added,  an  assured  light  in 
her  dark  Spanish  eyes. 

"You  will  save  him,  madame?    You " 

"Against  all  the  marshals  of  France,  child.  Go,  wait  in 
there." 

The  marshal  of  France  present  smiled  on  his  bride  indul- 
gently, admiringly,  as  she  closed  the  door  and  faced  him. 

She  was  less  than  half  his  age,  the  girl  wife  of  a  gray-haired 
veteran,  and  as  his  wife  she  was  second  lady  of  the  land.  A 
Mexican  aristocrat,  small  and  slender,  of  a  subtle,  winsome 
beauty,  with  the  prettiest  mouth  and  the  most  pyramidal  of 
crinolines,  she  had  reminded  Bazaine  of  his  first  wife,  and  he 
had  courted  her.  At  the  wedding  Maximilian  had  stood  padrino 
for  the  groom,  and  Charlotte  madrina  for  the  bride.  The 
imperial  gift  to  groom  and  bride  was  Buena  Vista,  as  the 
white  mansion  and  gardens  in  San  Cosme  were  called.  Natur- 
ally, then,  Madame  la  Mare*chale  approved  of  Napoleon's 
official  instructions,  which  directed  that  Monsieur  le  Mare"chal 
was  to  establish  the  Mexican  empire  solidly  and  for  all  time. 


224  The  Missourian 

Now  her  manner  of  calling  the  marshal  Pancho  was  consid- 
erable of  an  argument,  especially  when,  archly  formal,  she  made 
it  Don  Pancho.  What  if  this  Confederate  aid  were  to  go  to  the 
Mexican  rebels,  as  it  surely  would  if  the  emissary  at  Tuxtla 
were  shot?  And,  without  either  French  or  Confederates,  the 
Empire  would  fall,  the  rebels  would  win ;  and  then,  she  wanted 
to  know,  what  would  become  of  their  beautiful  home,  of  their 
high  position?  Moreover,  the  United  States  was  threatening 
to  drive  the  French  from  Mexico,  and  Madame  la  Marechale 
believed  it  a  very  good  thing  for  the  French  to  have  at  their 
side  some  of  the  very  men  who  had  held  those  Yankees  back 
for  four  long  years. 

Bazaine  wavered.  Then  he  smiled.  This  Mexican  bride 
of  his  was  Mexican  all  the  time;  and  French,  sometimes  not  at 
all.  She  had  not  the  big  trust  in  the  pantalons  rouges  when  it 
came  to  those  Yankees. 

"But,  Pancho  mio,"  she  went  on  softly,  "now  for  the  real 
reason,  the  one  that  holds  you  back.  It  is  your  Emperor 
Napoleon,  verdad?  You  think  that  he  does  not  want  this 
offer  to  reach  Maximilian.  Bien,  have  you  had  any  intimation 
of  what  he  wants?  Any  orders?  Of  course  you  haven't. 
Then  save  this  American.  Look  at  me — Don  Pancho,  I  say — 
if " 

"Sapristi,  call  the  girl  in!    No,  first  I  must  have " 

When  madame  could  free  herself  from  what  he  must  have, 
she  opened  the  door  and  triumphantly  called  to  Jacqueline's 
maid. 

A  half-hour  later,  in  one  of  the  marshal's  own  carriages, 
Berthe  returned  to  the  castle  of  Chapultepec.  At  once  she 
hastened  to  her  mistress's  apartments,  and  confessed  what  she 
had  done.  Still  in  the  blue  flowered  calico,  with  the  dust  of 
their  frantic  ride  still  on  her,  Jacqueline  was  seated  before  a 
little  desk.  Her  head  was  buried  in  her  arms,  and  her  loosened 
hair  fell  like  a  shower  of  copper  over  her  shoulders.  She  did 


Berthe 


225 


not  move  as  Berthe  entered,  nor  give  any  sign.  But  when  in  a 
word  the  story  was  told,  she  got  to  her  feet  and  stared  blankly 
at  the  girl.  Berthe  expected  dismissal,  but  the  next  instant  two 
arms  were  about  her,  and  lips  were  pressed  to  hers,  and  hot 
tears,  not  her  own,  wetted  her  cheek. 

"Berthe,  you  little  addle-pated  goose!  You — oh  you  little 

ninny,  you,  you "  Her  phrases  were  broken  by  laughter, 

then  by  an  uncontrollable  peal  that  was  near  a  shriek,  "Little, 
little  fool,  dost  thou  know,  thou  hast  this  night  lost  to  France 

fifteen  thousand  leagues  of  empire?  Thou — thou "  Yet 

kisses  were  again  the  portion  of  the  thief  of  fifteen  thousand 
leagues. 

"But  do  you  think  they  will  be  in  time,  Berthe?  Yes,  yes, 
you've  answered  that  once.  And  Michel  leads  them,  you 
say?" 

"Oui,  madame,  Monsieur  Ney  was  most  eager  to  go,  above 
all  when  His  Excellency  gave  him  Frenchmen  to  command. 
They  are  the  cuirassiers.  They  will  surely  save  the  American 
monsieur." 

"But  will  they  be  in  time?  Yes,  yes,  I  think  I've  asked 
that  already." 

Her  hysteric  glee,  changing  to  anxiety,  now  changed  as 
quickly  to  something  else.  Her  face  went  deathly  white, 
the  pretty  jaws  set  hard,  and  there  was  the  glint  of 
resolution  in  the  gray  eyes.  She  seized  a  cloak  and  threw 
it  about  her. 

"Come,"  she  said  to  the  maid. 

"Madame  is  going " 

"Yes,  to  undo  your  mischief.  Bazaine  must  send  to  over- 
take Ney,  must  command  him  not  to  interfere  with  the  execu- 
tion. Bazaine  will  do  this,  when  I  see  him." 

"But  you  will  not  find  His  Excellency  to-night.  Madame 
la  Mare"chale  ordered  the  carriage  for  them  both,  as  I  was 
leaving  there." 


226  The  Missourian 

"Indeed?  Then  she  knew  you  were  coming  here  to  me? 
Then  she  did  not  mention  where  they  were  going?" 

"No,  madame." 

"Of  course  not.  Oh,  she  is  cunning,  your  Madame  la 
Marechale!" 

Alas  for  Jacqueline!  She  might  conquer  herself,  but  add 
to  herself  a  second  woman  against  her,  and  she  was  beaten. 
She  confessed  defeat  by  throwing  off  the  cloak. 

"Tuxtla  is  far,  you  think  they  will — will " 

"Oh  I  think  they  will,  madame!" 

"Say  you  know  they  will!     Say  it,  Berthe,  say  it!" 

"Oh,  I  hope  so,  madame.  Monsieur  the  American  is 
lucky." 

The  American  ?  Somehow  the  blood  swept  hotly  into  Jacque- 
line's cheeks.  "  Say  they  will  not  save  him,  Berthe.  Say  no,  no, 
no!"  she  commanded,  and  imperiously  stamped  her  foot,  but 
stamp  as  she  would,  her  furious  shame  was  there  still,  flaunting 
its  glorious  color.  She  was  thinking  of  her  letter,  of  her 
avowal  to  a  doomed  man.  After  that,  any  man  was  under 
obligations  to  get  himself  shot.  Only,  this  one  was  of  a 
contrary  fibre. 

In  such  an  April  mood,  Jacqueline  was  capable  of  yet  another 
caprice.  "Berthe,"  she  cried,  even  as  the  whim  came,  "one 
is  tired  after  playing  the  goose,  n'est-ce  pas?  Do  you,  then, 
rest — yes,  yes,  while  I  comb  your  hair." 

"Madame!"  Berthe  protested  with  what  breath  astonish- 
ment left  her. 

"Do  ye  call  me  chief?"  demanded  the  mistress.  "Then, 
de  grace,  sit  still!  And  why  shouldn't  I,  parbleu?  If  it  took 
our  big  French  Revolution  to  throw  me  up  an  ancestor  out  of 
the  common  kettle,  there  has  just  now  been  another  revolution 
here" — she  pressed  a  hand  against  her  breast — "to  stir  me 
back  among  the  people  again.  Do  you  know,  dear,  that  your 
hair  is  beautiful!" 


Berthe  227 

And  so  they  were  two  girls,  girl-like,  passing  the  evening 
together. 

Of  a  sudden  Jacqueline  stopped,  the  braiding  arrested  by  a 
most  startling  thought. 

"Grands  dieux,"  she  told  herself  slowly,  for  it  had  to  be 
believed,  however  improbable,  "until  this  very  moment  I've 
never  once  stopped  to  think  of  all  the  emotions  I  have  been 
having  this  day.  I've  never  once  examined  them,  and  such 
emotions — Oh,  la,  la,  they're  a  collection,  a  veritable  museum 
of  creeps!  And  here  I've  hurried  through  that  museum,  till 
I've  even  forgotten  my  umbrella  at  the  check  stand!" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

MIKE 

"  Quand  on  est  aime  d'une  belle  f emme,  on  se  tire  toujours  d'affaire." 

— Zoroaster,  vide  Voltaire. 

THE  Storm  Centre  chafed  under  a  mad  desire  to  verify  his 
name,  which  was  not  unusual.  But  it  was  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  craved  active  danger  as  an  antidote  for  his  thoughts.  The 
sound  of  bars  lifting  came  as  a  relief,  and  he  shook  off  the  dark 
mood  and  was  himself.  Before  the  door  opened,  he  thrust  her 
letter  into  the  candle  flame.  He  had  kept  it  till  the  last  minute, 
but  now  he  burned  it,  as  she  knew  he  would. 

Instead  of  executioners,  he  beheld  a  tray,  gripped  by  choco- 
late hands.  Involuntarily  he  looked  up  to  the  face  above  the 
tray. 

"Johnny  the  Baptist!"  he  exclaimed.  "Well,  well,  how 
goes  it  itself  to  Your  Mercy  this  evening?" 

"Pues  bien,  senor,"  returned  the  Baptist,  grinning  sheep- 
ishly. "Would,  would  Y'r  Mercy  like  another  bath?"  The 
grimace  was  not  unamiable.  It  betokened  that  this  time  he, 
and  not  the  prisoner,  might  have  a  game  to  play. 

"A  thousand  thanks,"  replied  Driscoll,  "but  I'll  try  to  make 
that  other  bath  answer." 

"But  senor,  you  wasted  it." 

"Well,  perhaps  so.  You  see,  Johnny,  it  was  this  way.  I 
had  only  one  bath  coming,  and  on  the  other  hand  there  were 
two  things  to  save.  Do  you  know,  Johnny,  I've  been  mor- 
tified ever  since,  to  think  how  I  squandered  my  one  bath  in 

228 


"Mike"  229 

saving  just  my  life,  and  how  I  left  my  soul  to  bustle  along  for 
itself." 

The  Baptist  drew  nearer.  "But  suppose,  sefior,"  he  whis- 
pered, "suppose  the  need  of  absolution  was  again  postponed, 
even  now?" 

Driscoll's  fork  stopped  half  way  to  his  mouth.  There  was 
no  superstition  in  the  affair  this  time.  The  once  gullible  Dra- 
goon, moreover,  was  playing  all  the  leads.  "Of  course," 
Driscoll  agreed  heartily,  "I'd  certainly  like  it  right  well,"  and 
he  went  on  eating.  But  his  wits  were  in  a  receptive  state,  alert 
for  the  meaning  when  it  should  come.  The  opening  innuendoes 
exasperated  him,  for  the  guard  was  a  clumsy  agent.  The  man 
must  needs  feign  a  great  dread  of  discovery,  and  tremble  lest 
his  colonel,  Don  Miguel  Lopez,  should  find  him  out.  As 
though  supper,  instead  of  a  shooting  squad,  did  not  belie  it  all  ? 

"Still  your  move,  Johnny,"  Driscoll  had  to  remind  him. 

In  the  end  it  was  to  be  gathered  that  Don  Benito  Juarez,  the 
fugitive  Senor  Presidente  of  the  fugitive  Republic,  might  wel- 
come an  offer  of  Confederate  aid,  and  'twas  a  pity  that  the 
condemned  senor  should  have  no  chance  to  escape.  But  if 
he  did  escape,  he  might  find  his  way  to  the  Senor  Presidente 
far  off  in  the  state  of  Chihuahua. 

So,  the  cards  were  dealt  at  last.  Driscoll  looked  over  his 
hand.  He  recognized  a  crooked  game,  a  game  of  treachery 
and  dark  dealing;  but  even  so  he  perceived  that  a  trump  or  two 
had  fallen  to  him,  perhaps  unwittingly,  and  he  decided  to  "sit 
in  for  a  spell." 

He  began,  with  coy  hesitancy,  to  beat  his  scruples  around 
the  bush,  which  was  not  a  bad  lead.  Supposing  he  turned 
his  offer  from  Maximilian  to  President  Juarez,  wouldn't  it, 
well,  look  as  though  he  did  so  to  save  his  hide  ?  Brown  Johnny 
opened  his  eyes  as  at  something  unfamiliar.  Driscoll  went 
on.  If  he  were  shot,  how  was  he  to  go  to  Juarez?  But  if  he, 
uh,  happened  to  get  loose,  he  might  just  possibly  be  influenced 

» 


230  The  Missourian 

to  think  of  the  Juarez  proposal.  But  actually  buying  his  way 
out  would  look  dishonorable.  "Now,"  he  concluded  ab- 
ruptly, "run  along,  and  put  it  that  way  to  whoever  sent  you." 

The  man  protested,  and  in  some  genuine  alarm,  that  he  had 
no  employers. 

"Oh  all  right,"  said  Driscoll  easily,  "then  you're  bound  to 
help  me.  Because  if  you  don't,  I'll  sure  tell  Lopez  what  you've 
just  been  trying  to  hatch  up  here." 

The  trap  worked  beautifully,  for  the  guard  tried  hard  to 
quake.  But  his  fright  was  not  spontaneous  enough.  Driscoll 
smiled.  Now  he  knew  the  real  player  in  the  game. 

"Cheer  up,  Johnny,"  he  spoke  soothingly,  "I'd  not  tell  on 
you.  But  hadn't  you  better  go  and  think  it  over  by  yourself  a 
little?" 

The  Baptist  would  hasten  straight  to  Lopez,  and  Lopez, 
Driscoll  foresaw,  would  interpret  his  scruples  into  a  disguised 
acceptance.  The  crookedness  of  the  game  left  the  American 
no  other  trump,  and  he  played  it — against  immediate  death. 
Lopez,  of  course,  would  send  him  under  guard  to  Juarez,  but 
Driscoll  thought  he  could  trust  that  staunch  old  Roman,  when 
once  informed,  to  call  for  a  new  deck  and  an  honest  deal. 

Juan  Bautista  "thought  it  over"  outside,  and  directly 
returned  with  an  answer.  But  when  he  again  left  Driscoll,  he 
did  not  bar  the  door  behind  him.  Within  ten  minutes  there- 
after Driscoll  was  creeping  past  a  sleeping  sentinel,  on  between 
rows  of  maguey,  toward  the  road.  Around  him  hovered  five 
or  six  shadows.  They  were  to  be  his  escort  and  take  him  to 
Juarez.  They  would  join  him  openly  a  safe  distance  away,  at 
a  place  where  their  horses  waited.  But  as  he  emerged  upon 
the  road,  for  the  moment  alone,  a  voice  in  French  challenged 
sharply.  "Halte-la!" 

The  shadows  hesitated  an  instant,  then  showed  themselves 
with  energy.  They  sprang  out  and  closed  on  their  "escaped" 
prisoner.  They  handled  him  more  roughly  than  did  the 


"Mike"  231 

Contra  Guerrillas,  who  had  first  cried  "Halt,"  and  who  were 
now  appearing  as  by  magic.  The  blended  anger  and  gratifica- 
tion of  the  shadows  over  the  escape  and  recapture  was  vocif- 
erously sincere. 

"Take  them  all,  mes  enfants,"  a  huge  tone  of  command 
filled  the  darkness.  It  was  Colonel  Dupin.  He  had  that 
moment  arrived.  Jacqueline's  message  had  reached  him  in  the 
City  not  an  hour  before.  The  American  had  escaped,  it  said; 
he  was  at  Tuxtla.  The  Tiger,  knowing  nothing  of  Lopez 
lying  in  wait  for  the  same  American  at  the  same  place, 
had  dismounted  his  men,  surrounded  town  and  farms,  and 
was  closing  in,  when  Driscoll  himself  fell  among  them. 

The  interview  between  Dupin  and  Lopez  brewed  stormy  at 
first.  The  latter  turned  gray  under  his  ruddy  skin  when  Dupin 
walked  in  upon  him  in  the  front  room  of  the  farmhouse.  But 
seeing  that  his  own  men  were  holding  Driscoll,  he  nervously 
congratulated  them  upon  the  capture. 

"How  did  he  escape  this  second  time?"  demanded  the 
Frenchman.  "It  seems  to  me,  mon  colonel,  that  the  question 
would  occur  to  you  too." 

Lopez  was  sufficiently  alive  to  his  peril.  He  quickly  sent 
two  Dragoons  to  the  temporary  guard  house  to  investigate. 
Dupin  curtly  ordered  two  Cossacks  to  accompany  them.  Soon 
they  brought  back  the  sentinel  who  had  been  conveniently 
asleep  when  Driscoll  slipped  past.  The  sentinel  rubbed  his 
eyes  as  he  faced  Lopez.  So  far  everything  had  passed  according 
to  arrangement,  and  he  looked  for  a  severe  mock  examination. 
But  the  Tiger  had  been  left  out  of  the  calculations,  and  the  Tiger 
forthwith  shouldered  himself  into  the  inquisition. 

"Do  you  understand,  Colonel  Lopez,  that  your  guard  here 
was  asleep?  Si,  senor,  asleep!  What  now,  mon  colonel,  is 
the  little  custom  as  to  guards  who  sleep?" 

Lopez  glared  at  the  sentinel.  It  was  a  fine  simulation  of 
outraged  discipline,  and  so  life-like  that  when  he  spoke  of  a 


232  The  Missourian 

court  martial,  the  culprit  weakened.  He  opened  his  mouth. 
At  that  Lopez's  stern  anger  became  real.  He  feared  the  sen- 
tinel would  tell  all  he  knew. 

"Si  senor,"  cried  Lopez,  "we  don't  have  to  be  taught,  we 
Mexicans.  We  shoot  them.  Here,  six  of  you,  out  with  him! 
Quick,  before  he  can  whine!" 

"  Go  with  them,"  added  Dupin  quietly  to  six  of  his  Cossacks. 

The  sentinel  was  dragged  out.  His  cries,  whether  for  mercy 
or  not,  were  smothered  first  by  a  sabre  belt,  and  then  for  all 
time  by  musketry.  The  Cossacks  returned  and  assured  their 
chief  that  the  execution  was  bona  fide.  This  allayed  Dupin 's 
suspicions. 

"Permit  me  to  suggest,  Colonel  Lopez,"  he  said  courteously, 
"that  you  likewise  honor  our  friend  the  American.  I  came 
from  the  City  to  do  it  myself,  but  it  is  a  pleasure  to  give  way 
before  your  superior  vigilance." 

It  had  already  occurred  to  Lopez  that  Driscoll  also  might 
talk.  "You  are  very  amiable,  Senor  Dupin,"  he  replied. 
"My  court  martial  found  him  guilty,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
he  would  have  paid  the  penalty  by  now  had  Your  Mercy  not 
arrived.  Between  us,  Colonel  Dupin,  he  will  hardly  escape 
a  third  time." 

At  his  command  six  of  the  crack  Dragoons  stood  forth. 
They  were  brown,  and  Mexicans.  Lopez  bowed  to  Dupin, 
who  called  forth  as  many  Contras.  The  Contras  were  of 
variously  hued  races,  but  they  were  all  the  Tiger's  whelps. 
The  file  of  Dragoons  was  jaunty  crimson,  the  other  corroded 
red.  Driscoll  fell  in  meekly  between  them. 

"Sacred  name  of  a  dog,  you  are  honored,  senor!"  Dupin 
exclaimed  reprovingly.  It  angered  him  when  a  victim  quailed. 
The  present  one  ought  to  appreciate,  too,  that  he  was  answering 
for  two  besides  himself,  for  Murguia  and  Rodrigo,  whose  escape 
had  wrenched  the  old  warrior's  bowels. 

The  Storm  Centre  glanced  at  the  picked  hussars,  at  the 


"Mike"  233 

famously  infamous  Cossacks,  and  assented  modestly.  So 
plain  in  gray,  he  did  indeed  look  colorless  among  them.  The 
Contra  at  his  elbow  was  an  American,  whose  brutish,  swagger- 
ing scowl  meant  the  world  to  know  what  a  bad  man  he  was. 
The  type  gives  the  decent  citizen  a  mad  desire  to  be  bad  him- 
self just  once,  only  long  enough  to  prove  the  tough  a  con- 
temptible sham.  DriscolPs  neighbor  leered  ferociously,  that 
the  prisoner  flanked  by  sabres  and  muskets  might  respect  him 
and  be  cowed.  Driscoll  kept  him  in  mind,  and  in  the  tail  of 
his  eye. 

There  was  one  anxiety  for  the  Storm  Centre.  If  they 
should  bind  him !  But  they  had  not,  he  was  so  docile.  And  as 
they  marched  out  the  door,  he  exulted,  and  could  hardly  wait. 
Wouldn't  it  be  a  lovely  row,  though!  Just  one  good,  last 
good  time!  He  did  not  feel  hard  toward  them,  not  when 
they  had  left  off  the  ropes.  He  felt  that  he  was  to  have 
value  received,  and  all  the  while  he  figured  out  his  desperate 
campaign. 

As  they  passed  outside  beyond  the  window's  sphere  of  light, 
docility  changed  to  whirlwind.  A  blow  with  his  left,  a  jerk 
with  his  right,  and  he  had  the  tough's  carbine.  He  swung  it 
between  the  two  files,  a  grazing  circle.  He  got  blows  in 
return,  but  not  a  man  fired.  That  was  because  of  the  darkness, 
and  a  first  shot  would  inspire  a  wild,  general  fusilade,  endan- 
gering them  all.  As  it  was,  the  blows  were  impartial,  except 
one,  which  came  down  with  pointed  favoritism  on  the  tough's 
cranium.  After  that  Driscoll  helped  one  side  or  another,  and 
when  they  were  nicely  mixed,  he  ran.  He  got  as  far  as  the 
road,  but  to  find  a  troop  of  cavalry  charging  down  upon  him. 
Changing  ends  with  the  carbine,  he  fired  from  the  waist  at  the 
leader  of  the  new  arrivals.  This  leader  dropped  his  sabre, 
plunged  heavily,  and  was  dragged  by  the  stirrup.  Driscoll 
had  not  the  time  to  change  back  to  club  musket,  he  used  the 
barrel  as  such.  But  being  for  the  instant  alone,  he  was  marked 


234  The  Missourian 

out,  and  Cossacks  and  Dragoons  threw  themselves  upon  him 
and  brought  him  down. 

"It  was  lovely,"  he  muttered  under  the  heap. 

They  brought  him  back  to  the  house,  swathed  in  a 
mesh  of  lariats.  Lopez  awaited  them,  frothing  oaths. 
Dupin  was  there  too,  and  he  looked  an  epicure's  satisfaction 
as  they  stood  his  victim  against  the  wall.  He  did 
not  regret  the  incident,  since  it  had  turned  porridge  into  so 
choice  a  morsel. 

"'Tis  you,  monsieur,"  he  confessed  with  rugged  grace, 
"who  have  honored  us." 

"Oh,  your  grandmother!"  said  Driscoll. 

"Well,  be  patient.     It  will  be  all  over  in  a  minute  more." 

The  Tiger  was,  in  fact,  ordering  the  shooting  squad,  when 
through  the  open  door  glittering  helmets  and  excited  French 
and  clanking  sabres  flooded  the  room.  It  was  still  another 
wondrous  uniform  for  Driscoll,  this  of  the  cuirassiers,  with  so 
much  of  brass,  and  a  queue  of  horse's  hair,  and  loose  panta- 
loons that  merged  into  gigantic  black  boots.  In  they  strode, 
an  agitated  host  of  bristling  moustaches,  while  outside  was 
the  restless  sound  of  many  hard  breathed  horses.  The  cui- 
rassiers bore  their  wounded  leader,  and  laid  him  on  the  iron 
bed  in  the  room.  But  the  man  struggled  to  his  feet.  He 
called  loudly  for  "Monsieur  le  Colonel,"  and  only  by  force, 
though  gentle,  could  they  hold  him  quiet. 

"What  is  it?"  responded  both  Dupin  and  Lopez. 

"I,  I  mean  the  American  Colonel.     He — he " 

"Hello,  Mike!"  cried  Driscoll. 

He  could  not  see  for  the  others,  nor  move,  but  he  recognized 
the  voice  of  Michel  Ney.  He  knew,  too,  that  Michel  must  be 
the  cavalry  leader  he  had  just  shot.  "Darn  it,  Mike!"  he 
exclaimed,  "I'm  sorry!  But  weren't  there  enough  of  'em 
without  you?"  - 

"Monsieur  Ney,"  the  Tiger  interrupted,  "let  your  men  tend 


"Mike"  235 

you  here,  and  we  will  be  back  at  once  to  see  what  can  be  done 
for  your  hurt.  But  just  now " 

He  signed  to  Lopez,  and  Cossacks  and  Dragoons  caught  up 
the  prisoner  and  started  for  the  door. 

"Wait!"  Ney  moaned  feebly. 

"Tonnerre,  mon  prince,  your  wound  must  be  paid  for, 
first.  Hurry  there,  Messieurs  les  Imbeciles!" 

"Wait!"  Ney  gasped.  He  half  raised  himself,  but  sank 
back  with  closing  eyes.  He  made  a  gesture  to  his  breast.  All 
halted  as  in  the  presence  of  death. 

"Help  him,  you  there!"  cried  Driscoll.     "Open  his  coat!" 

The  cuirassiers,  eager,  awkward  nurses,  fluttered  round  the 
bed,  and  tore  away  the  sky-blue  jacket,  thinking  to  find  the 
wound  beneath.  Instead,  they  drew  out  a  paper.  One  of  them 
read  the  address  on  it. 

"Al  Senor  Coronel  Don  Miguel  Lopez." 

Lopez  broke  the  seal,  frowned,  and  put  the  message  in  his 
pocket.  "Nothing — oh,  nothing  important,"  he  volunteered. 
"Now,  once  for  all,  let  us  finish  our  work." 

"Wait!"  a  faint  whisper  came  from  the  bed. 

"He  says  to  wait,"  doggedly  repeated  a  cuirassier. 

"Yes,  wait,"  Driscoll  pleaded  suddenly.  "Just  a  minute, 
before  I  go,  before  we  both  go,  perhaps," — he  thought  in  a 
flash  that  it  might  be  a  last  word  from  Jacqueline — "perhaps, 
gentlemen,  he,  he  has  something  to  tell  me." 

But  Ney's  head,  moving  weakly  on  the  pillow,  was  a  negative. 

The  prisoner's  voice  grew  firm  again. 

"Then  hurry  up!"  he  ordered  in  the  old  querulous  drawl. 
"Don't  you  know  I'm  in  a  hurry?" 

Ney  opened  his  eyes  as  he  heard  the  shuffling  of  feet.  Men 
were  carrying  out  the  prisoner.  With  feeble  anger  he  brushed 
aside  the  hand  of  a  cuirassier  who  was  trying  to  staunch  the 
blood  at  fcis  groin. 

"I — I "    His  lips  barely  moved. 


236  The  Missourian 

The  cuirassier  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  looked  to  his  fellows, 
spoke  to  them.  Puzzled,  mystified,  they  rushed  to  the  door 
and  barred  the  way. 

"We  don't  know  why  we  came,"  stammered  one,  "and  he 
can't  speak.  But  his  signs  are  enough  for  us.  It's,  it's " 

"It's  something  to  do  with  the  American,"  declared  a 
second  cuirassier. 

Dupin  pounded  back  his  half  unsheathed  blade.  Brusquely 
he  wheeled  and  faced  the  colonel  of  Dragoons.  "Lopez," 
he  roared,  "what  was  that  message?" 

"N-nothing,  mi  coronel,  absolutely." 

"If  it  was  from  Maximilian,  I'd  know  it  to  be  a  pardon,  and 
not  blame  you.  But  I  recognized  the  marshal's  seal,  and 
that's  different." 

Lopez  blanched,  yet  insisted  again  that  the  message  was 
nothing.  "Besides,  sefior,"  he  added,  "I  do  not  take  orders 
from  His  Excellency,  the  marshal." 

"But  I  do,"  thundered  Dupin.  "And  I  see  them  obeyed 
too.  Oh,  you  can  protest  to  your  Emperor  afterwards,  my 
royal  guardsman,  if  you  want  to,  but  a  marshal  of  France  is 
the  law  when  I  am  near." 

Grunting  contemptuously,  Dupin  turned  to  the  bedside. 
The  cuirassiers  had  gathered  cobwebs  from  the  rafters,  and 
were  dressing  the  wound.  Michel  tossed  and  groaned  in  the 
beginning  of  delirium.  Dupin  muttered  with  vexation,  but 
he  took  hold  of  the^  lad's  wrist,  and  firmly  closed  his  hand 
over  it. 

"Listen,"  he  said,  very  distinctly,  putting  into  his  tones 
every  timbre  of  quiet,  compelling  will.  "Listen,  hear  me!" 

Slowly  the  feverish  man  grew  still. 

"Hear  me,"  said  Dupin.  "There  are  two  questions — two, 
only  two.  You  are  to  answer  them. — You  will  shake  your 
head,  'Yes,'  or  'No' — do  you  hear  me?" 

The  Chasseur's  eyes  opened  wide,  and  they  were  calm. 


"Mike" 


237 


"Good,  that's  the  brave  gentleman!  Now  then,  steady. 
The  first  question:  Shall  we  shoot  this  American?" 

Slowly,  painfully,  the  head  rocked  on  the  pillow,  from  one 
side  to  the  other. 

"It's  ' No ' ! "  cried  a  score  of  men. 

"Silence!"  roared  the  Tiger.  "Now,  the  second  question: 
Does  this  order  come  from  Marshal  Bazaine  ?  " 

Michel's  chin  sank  to  his  breast.  He  groaned,  he  could  not 
lift  it  again. 

"  Yes,  thank "     Ney  himself,  his  voice ! 

Dupin  swung  round.  "  Colonel  Lopez,"  he  ordered  savagely, 
"you  will  turn  your  prisoner  over  to  Sergeant  Ney,  at  once, 
sir!  Open  your  mouth,  you  dog,  and  every  Dragooning 
dandy  of  a  Mexican  among  you " 

The  Tiger's  pistols  were  drawn.  His  whelps  looked  hopeful. 
The  cuirassiers  bristled  in  sympathy. 

Cracking  his  finger  nails,  fawning  to  the  marrow,  Lopez 
agreed. 

"Unbind  the  prisoner,"  ordered  Dupin. 

"Thank  God!"  came  faintly  from  the  bed. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  WHISPER  OF  THE  SPHINX 

"  La  politique,  premiere  des  sciences  inexactes." 

— Entile  Augier. 

JACQUELINE  had  divined  in  Bazaine  another  obstacle  to  her 
mission.  And  yet  it  seemed  preposterous  that  he  should  not 
be  her  staunchest  ally,  since  Napoleon  had  found  a  marshal's 
baton  for  him  in  his  knapsack,  just  as  he  had  transformed  his 
own  policeman's  club  into  a  sceptre.  Nevertheless  Jacqueline 
had  her  doubts,  and  they  were  homage  to  her  sex.  In  other 
words,  she  returned  to  Mexico  to  find  that  His  Excellency 
had  married  again. 

The  very  day  after  her  arrival  she  called  to  see  her  dear 
friend,  now  Madame  la  Mardchale.  The  two  women  were 
hardly  more  than  girls,  but  who  shall  fathom  the  depth  of  their 
guile?  They  kissed  each  other  affectionately  on  the  cheek, 
and  while  the  marshal  was  in  the  other  room,  reading  the 
packet  Jacqueline  had  brought  him  from  Napoleon,  they  ex- 
pressed earnestly  their  joy  at  meeting  again. 

When  Bazaine  returned,  madame  rose  to  leave  them  to 
their  "stupid  state  affairs."  The  marshal  smiled,  knowing 
how  ravenous  was  his  bride  for  the  same  stupid  affairs  of  state, 
but  Jacqueline  agreed  that  indeed  they  were  wearisome. 
Of  course  she  might  tell  His  Excellency  much  about  Paris, 
but  as  to  politics — and  her  little  shrug  bespoke  a  Sahara  of 
ignorance. 

In  the  packet  delivered  by  Jacqueline,  the  Sphinx  had  by 
no  means  turned  oracle,  and  Bazaine  wished  to  know  what 

238 


The  Whisper  of  the  Sphinx  239 

his  crafty  master  would  have  said  between  the  lines.  But  the 
first  topic  of  their  conference  was  Driscoll. 

"Your  prisoner  is  incomunicado  then?"  said  she. 

"Have  no  fears,  he  is  comfortable,  here  in  this  very  house?" 

"He  has  sent  no  word  to  Maximilian  of  his  arrival?" 

"Not  as  yet,  mademoiselle." 

"And  why  not,  pray?" 

"Because  I  anticipated  the  honor  of  seeing  you  before  per- 
mitting him  so  much.  I  must  know  the  campaign  better. 
A  plain  soldier  is  dense  at  guessing,  mademoiselle,  while  you — 
you  have  talked  with  Napoleon.  If " 

"Oh,  don't  be  tedious.  You  alone  hold  the  knight  that 
means  royalty  triumphant  or  checkmated,  and  you  know  that 
you  do." 

"But  you  who  are  inspired,  tell  me  how  I  shall  play." 

"You  forget  that  I  left  this  man  to  be  shot?" 

"Then  I  am  to  destroy  him?" 

Jacqueline  shuddered.  "That  was  my  only  way,  but  you, 
monsieur,  you  can  lift  him  off  the  board  entirely." 

Bazaine  rose  from  his  chair  and  stood  before  her.  "I  am 
no  poet,"  he  said,  "and  these  flowers  of  speech  hide  the 
trenches.  My  American  means  that  I  may  have  thousands 
more  like  him,  and  he  is  a  good  one  to  be  multiplied  even  ten- 
fold. Mademoiselle,  "what  am  I  to  understand?" 

"Does  Napoleon's  letter  satisfy  none  of  your  doubts?" 

Without  a  word  he  handed  her  the  packet.  It  was  from 
Napoleon's  minister  of  finance,  and  it  exuded  woe.  The 
French  loans  were  exhausted  by  Maximilian's  luxury  and  mis- 
management, and  therefore  Bazaine  was  instructed  not  to 
advance  a  cent  further.  He  was,  moreover,  to  take  charge 
of  the  Mexican  ports,  and  administer  the  customs.  Here, 
then,  was  the  annihilation  of  Maximilian's  sway.  Here  was 
the  whispering  of  the  Sphinx.  France  herself  would  take 
over  the  Empire. 


240  The  Missourian 

"Hardly,"  returned  the  marshal,  "but  we  will  frighten  His 
Majesty  into  bettering  his  finances,"  and  he  handed  her  a 
confidential  missive  that  had  accompanied  the  other.  Bazaine 
was  therein  authorized,  when  the  security  of  the  Mexican 
Empire  absolutely  demanded  it,  to  advance  ten  millions  of 
francs. 

Jacqueline  sank  back  disheartened.  Not  even  Napoleon 
would  help  her.  The  Sphinx  had  not  the  courage  of  his  own 
designs,  and  she  contemptuously  flung  him  out  of  her  way. 
She  would  strive  alone,  and  against  him,  Napoleon,  among  the 
rest.  First  of  all,  there  was  his  captain  general,  the  man 
before  her. 

"Monsieur  le  Mare"chal,"  she  began,  as  impersonally  as 
though  quoting  a  dry  paragraph  of  history,  "there  is  a  party 
among  the  Mexicans  who  fear  the  republicans  and  what  the 
Republic  would  do.  Yet  their  hope  for  the  Empire  is  gone, 
and  they  want  no  more  of  it.  These,  monsieur,  are  the 
moderate  liberals,  and  strange  to  say,  they  are  the  clericals  too; 
in  a  word,  the  great  landowners.  They  are  for  what  is  good 
in  Mexico.  They  demand  order.  But  they  would  not  take 
it  from  the  United  States.  They  look  to  France — to  France, 
which  is  Catholic,  and  liberal." 

"I  know,"  said  the  marshal.  "They  have  already  hinted 
at  annexation." 

"Annexation  to  France,  of  course.  Now  then,  monsieur, 
if  we  stay  at  all,  we  shall  have  to  fight  the  United  States.  But 
do  you  imagine  that  we  would  undertake  such  a  fight  for 
Maximilian?  Parbleu,  the  French  people  would  mob  Napo 
Icon  over  night.  But,  supposing  we  were  to  do  it  for  ourselves, 
and  not  for  an  impecunious  archduke " 

His  Excellency's  eyes  blazed.  "Ah,  it  would  be  a  fight 
superb!" 

"And  you  commanding,  Monsieur  le  Mare"chal.  And  behind 
you,  with  our  own  pantalons  rouges,  those  Confederates  against 


The  Whisper  of  the  Sphinx  241 

their  old  enemies.  Then  would  be  the  moment  to  set  your 
knight  on  the  chess  board.  And,"  she  added  insidiously, 
"France  would  need  a  viceroy  over  here." 

The  plain  soldier  started  as  though  shot. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  gasped,  "you — you  are  Napoleon! 
The  great  Napoleon,  I  salute  you,  mademoiselle!" 

"Helas,  monsieur,  that  I  am  not  in  a  position  to  credit 
Napoleon  III.  with  what  I  have  said!" 

"Yet  you  wish  me  to  believe  that  you  are  only  inspired  by 
him?  Pardon  me,  mademoiselle,  but  he  is  the  inspired  one, 
and — mon  Dieu,  I  do  not  blame  him!" 

"But  it's  very  simple,"  said  Jacqueline,  "and  honorable  too. 
Maximilian's  bad  faith  nullifies  our  treaty  with  him.  Tres 
bien,  we  are  free,  free  to  withdraw  our  troops.  At  least  we 
may  threaten  as  much.  Then  he  will,  he  must  abdicate, 
unless — well,  unless  he  first  sees  Your  Excellency's  prisoner." 

She  arose,  feeling  that  she  was  leaving  a  good  Frenchman 
behind  her.  But  Madame  la  Marechale  appeared  to  bid  her 
adieu,  and  Madame  la  Marechale  looked  sharply  from  one  to 
another,  noting  especially  Bazaine's  flush  of  enthusiasm.  The 
good  Frenchman  straightway  became  uneasy.  And  Jacque- 
line, riding  back  to  Chapultepec  in  her  carriage  with  its  coronet 
and  arms  and  footmen,  did  not  know  that  Driscoll  had  not 
been  incomunicado  against  Madame  la  Marechale.  Who 
could  be?  And  Madame  la  Marechale  betimes  had  paid  her 
respects  to  a  third  woman,  who  also  was  but  little  more  than  a 
girl.  She  and  the  Empress  Charlotte  had  discussed  both  the 
prisoner  and  Jacqueline. 


CHAPTER  XXX 
THE  AMBASSADOR 

"  Receive  then  this  young  hero  with  all  becoming  state; 
Twere  ill  advisM  to  merit  so  fierce  a  champion's  hate." 

— Nibelungenlied. 

IN  his  bedroom  at  Buena  Vista,  the  marshal's  residence, 
Driscoll  the  next  day  received  a  personage,  and  offered 
him  a  cigar.  Declined,  with  bow  from  shoulder.  Hoped  he 
would  have  a  nip  of  peach  brandy?  Declined,  with  sweep 
from  hips.  He  was  a  personage.  Driscoll  noted  regalia, 
medals,  cordon;  and  apologized  for  the  temerity  of  Missouri 
hospitality. 

"Especially,"  he  said,  "as  you're  a  Grand  Divinity." 

"Dignity,  senor,"  the  hidalgo  corrected  him,  "Grand 
Dignity." 

"You'll  have  to  pardon  me  again,"  said  Driscoll,  "but  I 
really  didn't  intend  any  short  measure  at  all." 

It  was  the  Imperial  Grand  Chamberlain  himself .  There  were 
no  incomunicado  doors  before  him;  he  came  from  the  Em- 
peror. The  Empress  had  spoken  to  His  Majesty,  having  just 
had  her  discussion  aforementioned  with  Madame  la  Marechale, 
so  that  Monsieur  le  Mardchal  had  had  to  lift  from  his  prisoner 
the  ban  of  the  incomunicado.  But  monsieur  had  been 
extremely  reluctant  about  it. 

The  Chamberlain's  name  went  well  with  his  exalted  fourth 
degree  of  proximity  to  the  throne.  It  was  Velasquez  de  Leon, 
a  very  bristling  of  Castilian  pride.  He  looked  over  the  battered 
American  in  homespun  gray,  and  wondered  where  the  mistake 

242 


The  Ambassador  243 

was.  For,  as  arbiter  of  precedence,  appraiser  of  inequality 
between  men,  and  supervisor  over  court  functions  generally, 
he  had  been  sent  in  the  way  of  business.  Driscoll  felt  sorry 
for  him. 

"Just  tell  them  to  let  me  out  of  here,"  said  the  prisoner, 
"then  I'll  call  in  on  the  Emperor  whenever  it's  convenient  for 
him." 

"But,  senor,"  the  don  objected  testily,  "with  what  status, 
pray?  Has  your  country  a  representative  here?  You  must 
obtain  a  letter  from  your  ambassador,  or  have  him  present 
you." 

Driscoll  shook  his  head.  "Can't,"  he  said,  "haven't  any 
country." 

The  minion  of  etiquette  despaired. 

"But,"  Driscoll  added,  "I've  got  as  good  as  credentials 
from  what  used  to  be  my  country." 

Velasquez  de  Leon  grasped  at  the  straw.  "Then,"  he  cried, 
"we  can  register  you  as  an  ambassador." 

"Bringing  my  country  with  me,"  Driscoll  suggested. 

So  it  was  all  straightened  out  pleasantly,  and  quite  in  the 
orthodox  manner,  too.  The  American's  status  was  defined. 
His  reception  would  fall  under  the  rubric:  "Private  Audi- 
ence." There  remained  only  one  grave  drawback.  The 
protocol  allowed  no  hints  as  to  the  un-protocol  aspect  of  an 
ambassador's  wardrobe.  The  hidalgo  could  only  finger 
nervously  the  Imperial  Crown  in  his  Grand  Uniform,  and  with 
stiff  dignity  take  his  leave. 

The  ambassador  who  was  his  own  country  rode  in  the 
marshal's  landau  to  court,  with  a  retinue  of  Lancers  that  was 
also  his  guard.  Soon  they  entered  the  Paseo,  which  Maxi- 
milian was  making  beautiful  at  inordinate  cost  as  a  link  between 
the  City  and  his  summer  palace,  the  alcazar  of  Chapultepec. 
Turning  into  the  wide,  stately  boulevard,  Driscoll  was  that 
moment  plunged  into  an  eddying  splendor  of  Europe  trans- 


244  The  Missourian 

planted,  and  he  blinked  his  eyes,  half  humorously.  There 
were  mettlesome  steeds,  and  coaches  with  a  high  polish,  and 
silver  weighted  harness,  and  the  insolence  of  livery,  and 
armorial  bearings,  and  the  gilt  of  coronets  on  carriage  panels. 
There  were  silk  hats  and  peaked  sombreros,  lace  mantillas 
and  Parisian  bonnets.  A  lavish  use  of  French  money  was 
doing  these  things,  and  the  Mexicans,  believing  in  their 
aristocracy  since  the  revival  of  titles  never  heard  of  in  Gotha, 
believed  also  that  such  brilliancy  of  display  made  their  capital 
the  peer  of  Vienna,  or  of  the  Quartier  St.  Germain.  The 
Mexicans  were  very  happy  and  arrogant  over  it. 

"I  wonder  how  they  can  fight  and  yet  keep  their  clothes  so 
pretty,"  thought  the  Missourian. 

The  gallant  carpet-knighthood  of  uniforms  was  bothering 
him  again.  They  were  dashing,  militant,  these  paladins,  a 
bal  masque  of  luxurious  oddity  and  color.  They  twisted 
waxed  moustaches,  and  their  coursers  cantered  to  and  fro 
in  the  gay  parade,  and  among  them  only  the  charro  cavaliers 
with  a  glitter  of  spangle  let  one  guess  that  this  could  be  Mexico. 
There  was  the  Austrian  dragoon  with  his  Tyrolean  feather, 
and  the  Polish  uhlan,  fur  fringed,  and  the  Hungarian  hussar, 
whose  pelisse  dangled  romantically,  and  there  were  some 
fellows  in  low  boots  and  tights  and  high  busbies,  who  were 
cross-braided  on  the  chest  and  scroll-embroidered  on  the  front 
of  the  leg,  and  looked  exactly  like  Tzigane  bandmasters  or 
lion  tamers.  The  Slav,  the  Magyar,  the  Czech,  and  yet  others 
of  the  Emperor's  score  of  native  races,  all  were  here  out  of  the 
nearer  Orient,  with  curved  swords  and  ferocious  bearing. 
There  were  the  countrymen  of  the  Empress,  too ;  the  Belgians, 
who  were  as  bedecked  of  sleeve  as  a  drum  corps.  And  as  to 
the  French,  there  they  were  in  green  and  silver,  in  sky  blue,  in 
cuirassier  helmets,  in  the  zouave  fez,  or  in  any  of  the  other 
ways  in  which  they  bore  their  chips  on  the  shoulder. 

Shelby's  ragged  Missourians  had  tossed  on  straw  for  the 


The  Ambassador  245 

lack  of  quinine,  and  yet  were  presuming  to  save  this  gorgeous 
empire  of  golden  spurred  gentlemen.  The  thought  of  his 
mission  gave  Driscoll  an  ironic  twinge. 

But  there  was  the  pantalon  rouge,  the  little  soldier  boy  of 
France  who  did  the  work,  and  the  sight  of  him  put  the  American 
into  a  friendly  humor.  He  was  everywhere,  the  little  pantalon 
rouge,  streaming  the  walks,  dotting  the  cafes  with  red,  and 
every  wee  piou-piou  under  the  great  big  epaulettes  of  a  great 
big  comic  opera  generalissimo.  His  huge  military  coat  fitted 
him  awkwardly,  and  the  crimson  pompon  cocked  on  his  little 
fighting  kepi  was  more  often  awry,  and  he  could  not  by  any 
effort  achieve  a  strut.  He  was  only  bon  enfant,  this  uncon- 
quered  soldier  lad;  so  he  gave  over  trying  to  be  martial,  and 
left  to  his  officers  the  role  of  the  Gallic  rooster,  taking  it  all  as  a 
droll  joke  on  himself,  while  his  vivacious  eyes  danced  with  fun. 

The  ambassador's  coach  passed  under  the  cypresses  and 
wound  round  the  Aztec  hill  of  the  Grasshopper,  and  came  at 
last  to  the  castle  on  the  summit.  And  as  Guatemotzin  had  once, 
ventured  to  this  place  to  plead  with  Moctezuma  to  save  his 
empire,  and  to  show  him  how  to  do  it,  so  Driscoll  now  entered 
the  portals  of  Chapultepec  on  a  very  similar  errand. 

The  superb  Indian  lord  was  never  so  hedged  in  with  bar- 
baric ceremony  as  was  his  Teuton  successor  of  three  centuries 
later.  But  Driscoll  was  patient.  He  advanced  as  the  red  tape 
gave  way,  humming  under  his  breath  "  Green  Grows  the  Grass," 
a  schottische  which  the  American  invaders  of  '48  had  sung 
in  taking  this  same  fortress,  which  also  had  given  all  Americans 
the  name  of  "Gringo." 

Guardias  Palatinas  saluted  the  Missourian  at  the  entrance. 
Two  Secretaries  of  Ceremony,  Grand  Uniform,  with  cordon 
and  the  Imperial  eagle,  bowed  before  him  in  the  Gran  Patio. 
One  stepped  to  his  right,  the  other  to  his  left,  with  all  the 
ceremony  of  which  they  were  secretaries,  and  the  three  walked 
abreast  the  length  of  the  Galeria  de  Iturbide,  where  they  were 


246  The  Missourian 

joined  by  the  Lesser  Service  of  Honor.  Thus,  swelling  by 
cumulative  degrees  of  impressiveness,  Trooper  Driscoll  came 
at  last  into  the  Sala  de  Audiencias,  and  gazed  with  admiration 
at  its  beautiful  Gobelin  suite. 

The  Emperor  was  there,  tall,  white  browed,  refined.  He 
bowed.  Driscoll  bowed,  and  started  toward  him,  for  they 
were  scarcely  in  speaking  distance.  But  His  Imperial  High- 
ness bowed  again.  He  was  absent-minded,  evidently,  but 
Driscoll  bowed  also,  and  pretended  not- to  notice.  Then  yet 
a  third  time  the  monarch  bowed.  And  with  true  courtesy  the 
American  overlooked  what  was  growing  ridiculous,  and  did 
likewise.  Thus  the  ritualistic  three  obeisances  were  accom- 
plished. 

Maximilian  dismissed  the  Lesser  Service,  and  he  and  his 
guest  were  alone.  Now  Driscoll  supposed,  considering  the 
discommoding  interest  his  mission  had  awakened  in  everybody 
except  in  the  Emperor,  that  the  Emperor  himself  would  this 
time  be  concerned  enough  to  "get  down  to  business."  But 
not  so.  There  were  yet  the  formalities: 

"I  understand,  Senor  Embajador,"  Maximilian  began  in 
the  language  of  his  court,  "that  Your  Excellency " 

"Thank  you,  sir,  but  my  name  is  Driscoll." 

"That  Your  Excellency  comes  accredited  from  a  govern- 
ment that  no  longer  exists.  But  We  will  waive  that,  since  the 
said  power  existed  at  the  moment  of  Your  Excellency's  depart- 
ure." 

This  was  to  harmonize  the  absurdity  with  the  Ritual.  Maxi- 
milian liked  to  play  at  receiving  an -American  representative. 
It  grieved  him  sorely  that  the  United  States  had  never  recog- 
nized his  dignity,  but  that  it  had  consistently  rated  him  as 
merely  "the  Prince  Maximilian." 

Driscoll's  first  words  cut  short  the  make-believe. 

"You'd  hardly  call  them  credentials,"  he  said.  "Our  presi- 
dent, it  is  true,  helped  me  on  my  way,  but  I  have  nothing  from 


The  Ambassador  247 

him  to  you.  And  yet  I  bring  more  than  Mr.  Jefferson  Davis 
could  send.  Here,"  and  he  produced  the  memorandum  from 
the  Confederate  generals  of  the  Trans-Mississippi  department, 
which  in  his  belt  Jacqueline  had  had  restored  to  him  with  his 
other  effects. 

Maximilian  took  the  note  handed  him,  but  stared  at  the 
emissary.  Charlotte  had  induced  the  monarch  to  grant  the 
audience.  She  had  hinted  at  its  importance,  but  not  until  now 
did  Maximilian  recognize  his  guest.  Driscoll  was  attired 
in  the  full  uniform  of  a  lieutenant  colonel  of  cavalry,  which, 
by  the  way,  was  what  he  had  carried  so  jealously  in  the  bundle 
behind  his  saddle.  From  the  dignified  young  officer  in  gray  back 
to  the  desperado  young  giant  in  homespun  proved  considera- 
ble of  a  reach  for  the  Hapsburg;  but  at  last,  by  virtue  of  much 
caressing  of  his  silky  beard  with  delicate  finger  tips,  he  arrived. 

"So,  it  was  you  the  marshal  saved!"  he  exclaimed.  "Yes, 
yes,  I  should  have  remembered  sooner.  Colonel  Lopez  told 
me.  A  capable,  faithful  officer,  is  Lopez!  I  could  not  but 
approve  the  finding  of  his  court  martial.  And  yet,  against  his 
urgent  advice,  I  have  decided  to  pardon  you." 

"To  apologize,  you  mean?" 

The  Emperor  looked  hurt.  As  a  foil  for  his  royal  clemency, 
there  should  be  humble  gratitude.  Maximilian  often  mistook 
fawning  for  such. 

"Isn't  it  a  bit  odd,"  Driscoll  queried  whimsically,  "that  an 
ambassador  should  be  arrested?" 

"Jove,  that's  a  fact!     I  hadn't  thought." 

"Certainly.  But  if  it  don't  occur  again,  we'll  just  let  the 
apology  go." 

"No,  no,"  protested  the  monarch.  "You  must  have  your 
apology.  You  will  receive  it  from  the  Grand  Chamberlain 
to-morrow,  and  it  will  appear  in  the  Journal  Officiel." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Driscoll,  "anything  to  clear  the  way." 
Whereupon  he  plunged  and  stated  his  business. 


248  The  Missourian 

With  debonair  Prince  Max  it  was  not  a  question  of  even  who 
talked  best.  It  was  who  talked  last.  And  Driscoll,  being  for 
the  moment  an  exhorter  of  both  descriptions,  drove  home  con- 
viction as  a  sabre  point.  He  spoke  bluntly,  earnestly;  and, 
at  the  scent  of  opposition,  he  spoke  fiercely.  The  South  was 
defeated,  he  said,  and  the  North  would  now  make  good  its 
threat  to  drive  out  the  French.  And  the  French  would  go, 
too.  Suppose  they  were  even  willing  to  undertake  a  great  war 
for  Maximilian,  yet  they  would  go  just  the  same.  And  why? 
Because  they  had  fought  the  Russians.  They  had  fought  the 
Austrians.  And  they  were  keeping  the  Italians  out  of  Rome 
to  help  the  Pope.  So  they  had  not  a  friend  left,  not  one,  to 
help  them  against  the  enemy  they  must  soon  fight,  which  was 
Prussia.  Consequently  they  would  draw  every  bayonet  out 
of  Mexico,  and  Maximilian  would  be  left  alone  to  face  his 
rebels.  But  Maximilian  could  not  face  the  rebels  alone. 
They  had  been  dominant  before  the  French  came.  To 
replace  thirty  thousand  French,  Driscoll  offered  fifty  thousand 
Southerners,  fifty  thousand  well-equipped,  splendid  veterans. 
Twenty-five  thousand  were  already  on  the  frontier,  he  mean- 
ing those  under  General  Slaughter  at  Brownsville,  and  Shelby 
and  the  others  were  not  far  behind. 

"But,"  said  Maximilian,  smiling  bitterly,  "you  forget  that 
the  United  States  would  still  object  to  my  poor  Empire." 

"Not  when  the  French  leave,  they  wouldn't.  We  would 
become  citizens.  We  would  not  be  a  foreign  intervention. 
You  would  be  backed  up  by  Mexicans  against  Mexicans,  and 
the  North  could  not  interfere.  But,  suppose  that  the  French 
remain,  wouldn't  they  have  to  fight?  And  they  would  need 
our  aid  to  do  it,  too.  Don't  you  see,  sir,  that  in  any  case  you 
should  make  us  very  welcome?" 

"There  is  assuredly  no  other  way  to  look  at  it!"  admitted 
the  prince  uneasily. 

Dreaming  himself  a  monarch  of  chivalry  days,  Maximilian 


The  Ambassador  249 

was  subtly  enthralled  by  the  idea  of  a  band  of  heroes  flocking 
to  his  standard,  their  swords  on  high.  Stouter  than  those 
warriors  who  had  helped  Siegfried  to  his  bride,  they  would 
hold  for  him  a  treasure  greater  than  that  under  the  Rhine. 
Themselves  and  their  children  forever,  they  would  be  the 
real  mainstay  of  the  dynasty  founded  by  Maximilian  the  Great. 
They  were  Anglo-Saxons,  Germanic,  his  own  kindred,  and  to 
him  they  came  for  new  homes  and  a  new  country.  They 
would  be  his  landed  gentry,  his  barons,  his  hidalgos.  It  was  a 
prospect  for  an  emperor;  above  all,  for  a  poet  emperor.  As 
he  looked  now  on  the  young  Confederate  officer,  on  him  who 
had  seemed  a  desperado,  Maximilian  thought  that  here  stood 
one  who  was  the  instrument  of  Destiny. 

"Can — can  they  really  come?"  he  demanded  breathlessly. 

Driscoll  smiled.  "Of  course,  there's  no  time  to  lose,"  he 
replied.  "For  instance,  if  I'd  had  your  answer  there  at  Mur- 
guia's  ranch,  I'd  have  gotten  back  in  time  to  head  off  whole 
regiments  who've  probably  given  up  their  arms  since  then. 
But  you  can  still  count  on  an  army  west  of  the  Mississippi  that 
hasn't  surrendered  yet.  At  least  my  general  hasn't,  not  Old 
Joe,  and  he  won't  either.  But  you  must  say  'yes'  pretty 
quick.  We're  restless,  and  might  conclude  to  run  the  French 
out  of  here.  We  haven't  forgotten  how  Napoleon  forgot  to 
help  us." 

It  was  a  cunning  stroke.  Maximilian  would  have  asked 
nothing  better  than  independence  from  his  "dear  imperial 
brother,"  and  just  this  was  the  bribe  so  temptingly  held  out  by 
the  instrument  of  Destiny.  But  the  Hapsburg  of  the  heavy, 
trembling  underlip  credited  wavering  as  statesmanlike  prudence. 

"To-morrow,"  he  said,  "no,  the  day  after,  you  shall  have 
my  decision." 

Jacqueline  witnessed  the  ambassador's  departure.  Hidden 
among  the  roses  of  the  fortress  rock,  where  she  sat  with  a  book, 
she  peeped  out  as  he  came  down  the  steps  to  the  marshal's 


250  The  Missourian 

landau.  The  glacial  Secretaries  of  Ceremony  flanked  him  on 
either  side,  and  the  statuesque  Palatine  Guards  saluted.  She 
could  not  be  mistaken,  the  corners  of  his  mouth  were  twitching. 
It  was  such  an  inimitable  commentary  on  the  Ritual  that  she 
had  much  to  do  not  to  dart  out  and  laugh  with  him-in  gleeful 
mischief. 

Then,  she  noted  his  uniform.  After  the  ornate  regimentals 
of  all  Europe,  what  a  relief  was  the  simple  gray!  There  was 
the  long  coat,  the  belt,  the  dragoon  sabre,  the  unobtrusive 
insignia  on  the  collar,  and  she  murmured  her  verdict  advisedly. 
It  was  beautiful!  Next  she  noted  the  man — as  though  she  had 
not  in  the  first  place.  His  easy  frame  still  had  that  charm  of 
gaucherie,  and  the  rollicking  daredeviltry  lurked  quiescent 
in  the  brown  eyes,  but  enough  to  recall  the  rider  of  fury,  her 
chevalier  de  Missour-i,  plunging  through  a  wall  and  cloud  of 
dust  on  a  big-boned  yellow  charger.  And  though  now  he  wa's 
in  this  beautiful  simplicity  of  gray,  she  looked  in  vain  for  some 
hint  of  martial  stride  or  pompous  chest. 

She  wondered  for  a  moment  why  he  had  worn  the  uniform. 
It  signified  nothing,  since  the  Confederacy  had  fallen.  Then 
she  understood.  He  had  not  surrendered.  Nor  had  those  he 
represented.  The  gray,  for  him,  still  had  its  reason,  and  was 
a  power  yet;  the  power  to  decide  an  empire's  fate.  It  was  the 
grave  dignity  of  a  lost  cause;  striving,  before  being  doffed 
forever,  to  leave  behind  a  new  cause.  Or,  if  failing,  to  accept 
the  lot  of  surrender.  In  either  case,  her  chevalier  de  Missour-i 
was  wearing  the  dear  uniform  for  the  last  time.  With  her 
keenness  for  intuition  and  sympathy,  Jacqueline  knew.  She 
knew  what  it  must  mean.  And  he  looked  so  strong,  so  splendid ! 
Her  eyes  unexpectedly  dimmed  in  tenderness  for  him. 

Driscoll,  being  now  a  free  man,  established  himself  at  a  hotel 
near  the  diligencia  office  in  the  busy  Plateros  street.  He 
drilled  through  the  following  day  with  tedious  waiting  for  the 
day  after,  when  he  was  to  have  the  promised  reply.  Used  to 


The  Ambassador  251 

men  who  knew  their  own  minds,  he  hoped  for  strength  in 
this  emperor  fellow.  Then,  his  mission  successful,  he  would 
be  in  the  saddle  by  the  next  night,  perhaps  by  noon,  and  has- 
tening toward  the  border  with  tidings  of  homes  and  more 
fighting  for  his  comrades  of  the  Old  Brigade.  But  the  next 
morning,  even  as  he  was  mounting  Demijohn  to  go  to  Chapul- 
tepec,  a  thin  man  in  riding  breeches  entered  the  hotel  patio 
and  accosted  him. 

"I  am  Monsieur  filoin,"  the  stranger  announced  in  English 
that  could  be  understood,  "of  Her  Majesty's  household.  Also 
aide  and  secretary  in  private  to  the  Emperor.  I  see,  you  go 
to  horse.  It  is  well,  sir.  Mine  is  outside." 

"What's  the  answer?"  asked  Driscoll.  "I'm  not  up  on 
conundrums. " 

"It  is  that  we  go  to  Cuernavaca." 

"You  don't  say!    Now  where's  that,  and  what  for?" 

"Cuernavaca  is  His  Majesty's  country  sit-down,  about  a 
douzaine  of  leagues  from  here.  You  have  not  read  of  this 
morning  the  Journal  Officiel?  Here  it  is.  The  court  went 
there  yesterday.  His  Majesty  has  to  need  rest." 

"But  he  was  to  see  me  to-day!   What's  the  matter  with  him  ? " 

M.  Eloin's  brow  contracted  narrowly,  and  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  "His  Imperial  Highness  is  much  worked.  He  is 
worse  of  good  health.  Her  Majesty  sought  at  having  him 
stay,  to  give  you  that  same-self  answer  he  had  promised 
already.  And  the  Marshal  Bazaine,  sensible  this  once,  did 
talk  yesterday  night  before  last,  after  you  were  there,  and 
beseeched  him  to  accept  your  offer.  And  they  all  beseeched, 
Her  Majesty  and  Madame  la  Marechale,  and  I. — But,  what 
would  you?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.     What  the  devil " 

"No,  not  him!     But  her,  sir,  her!" 

"Her,  who?" 

"Why,  her.     We  all  talk,  argue,  beseech;  and  she,  in  one 


252  The  Missourian 

little  whisper,  she  only  tell  His  Majesty  he  has  to  need  that 
rest — and,  poof!  off  they  all  go  to  Cuernavaca,  and  I  know 
nothing.  Her  Majesty  leave  me  a  note.  I  bring  you  it  here." 

"But  who  is  the  'she?'    You  don't  mean " 

"Yes,  we  others  call  her  Jacqueline.  She  did  it,  against 
everybody  who  beseech.  But  we — how  you  say? — we  fool 
her,  you  and  me.  Come, we  are  there  to-night, at  Cuernavaca." 

"Just   that   little   girl "     Driscoll   murmured   wonder- 

ingly. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
CARLOTA 

"  Der  sicherste  Weg  nicht  sehr  ungliicklich  zu  sein  ist  das  Gliick  nicht 
erwarten." — Schopenhauer. 

EVERYBODY  he  met  seemed  to  twist  Driscoll's  business  into 
a  vital  personal  issue,  and  it  did  not  take  him  long  to  place  M. 
filoin.  The  supercilious  Belgian  of  the  rancid  brow,  as  Dris- 
coll  mentally  described  him,  wanted  the  perpetuation  of  the 
empire,  and  he  wanted  it  for  the  very  simple  reason  that  the 
favorite  of  a  realmless  prince  does  not  amount  to  much.  Hence 
he  intrigued  for  the  acceptance  of  Driscoll's  offer  and  for  the 
confusion  of  Jacqueline. 

A  small  escort  of  Belgians  joined  him  and  Driscoll  at  the 
garita,  or  little  customs  house,  on  the  edge  of  the  City.  Accom- 
panying them  was  a  burly  priest  with  a  head  shaped  like  a 
pear.  The  padre  had  very  small  eyes  for  so  large  a  man,  but 
they  were  exceedingly  bright  and  roved  adventurously.  They 
would  settle  with  crafty  calculation  on  filoin  time  and  again, 
though  his  manner  toward  the  favorite  was  always  a  thing 
of  humble  deference. 

"His  Dutch  Holiness  from  Murgie's!"  Driscoll  observed 
to  himself. 

But  there  might  be  an  ecclesiastical  college  along,  for  all 
the  Missourian  cared.  His  own  thoughts  were  battalions. 
"When  it's  over,  one  way  or  another,"  he  kept  deciding, 
"I'll  speak  to  her,  yes  I  will!  What's  there  to  be  afraid  of? 
W'y,  she's — only  a  girl."  It  might  be  an  unfair  advantage, 
his  not  dying  after  the  confession  in  her  farewell  letter  to  him, 

2S3 


254  The  Missourian 

but  ho  would  have  her,  he  would  have  her!  The  Lord  be 
good  to  him,  he  had  to  have  her! 

Late  in  the  afternoon  they  arrived  at  the  quaint  old  Aztec 
village  of  Cuernavaca,  which  had  been  the  country  seat  of 
Cortez,  and  was  now  that  of  a  second  fair  god  and  a  second 
Hernando.  After  dismounting  at  the  hotel  near  the  con- 
quistador's palace,  filoin  hurried  Driscoll  across  the  plaza  into 
the  beautiful  Italian  gardens  where  Maximilian  made  his 
home.  At  the  villa,  Charlotte's  own  residence  in  the  gardens, 
filoin  had  himself  announced  to  Her  Majesty.  The  American 
reflected  that  women  seemed  to  have  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the 
reigning  business.  In  the  drawing  room,  the  Empress  received 
them. 

She  was  a  slender  young  woman  whose  lips  were  thin  and 
proud,  whose  eyes  were  dark  and  lustrous.  Her  hair  was 
black  and  very  heavy,  coiled  in  the  old  fashioned  style  away 
from  a  high  forehead  that  was  beautifully  white.  She  could 
not  be  older  than  twenty-five,  and  there  was  even  a  girlishness 
in  her  bearing.  But  she  had  a  steadiness  of  gaze — one  eye 
seemed  the  least  heavy  lidded — and  there  was  a  firmness  to  the 
slightly  large  mouth,  which  gave  an  impression  of  strong 
lines  to  what  was  really  a  soft,  oval  face.  Yet  the 
temperament  could  not  be  mistaken.  She  was  a  woman 
of  acute  nerves.  She  was  tensely  strung,  inordinately 
sensitive. 

Driscoll  believed  now  what  he  had  heard,  that  the  Empire 
fared  better  when  Charlotte  was  regent  and  her  lord  on  a 
journey.  Maximilian  dreamed,  while  she  realized.  The 
Hapsburg  cadet,  gazing  over  the  Adriatic  from  the  marble 
steps  of  Miramar,  had  brooded  fondly  on  what  Destiny  must 
hold  for  him.  He  would  be  king  of  a  Poland  born  again 
among  the  nations.  Then  Louis  Napoleon  whispered  of  an- 
other throne  in  the  building.  Whereupon  she  began  the  study 
of  Spanish;  she  decided  her  half  hesitating  spouse  to  accept, 


Carlota 


255 


however  loftily  they  both  scorned  the  adventurer  who  helped 
them  to  it. 

Carlota,  for  so  the  natives  called  her,  amiably  greeted  the 
Missourian.  She  was  a  woman  of  tact,  and  though  one  Din 
Driscoll  was  for  her  as  impersonal  a  thing  as  some  opportune 
event,  yet  events  must  be  neatly  turned  to  account. 

"His  Majesty  and  I  have  discussed  your  presence  in  our 
country,  sir,"  she  began  in  English,  "and  feeling  that  he  de- 
sires to  see  you  again,  I  requested  M.  £loin  to  bring  you  to 
Cuernavaca." 

"Why,  thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Driscoll. 

She  all  but  reproved  the  form  of  address.  But,  for  her  at 
least,  common  sense  was  beginning  to  prevail.  The  rigid 
court  punctilio,  largely  of  her  own  enthusiastic  designing,  had 
gone  hard  with  her.  Her  husband  had  proved  no  more  than 
consistent  to  the  medieval  revival.  He  was  but  true  to  that 
old  chivalry  which  distinguished  between  the  divinely  fair 
damsel  to  be  won  and  the  mere  woman  won  already.  He  was 
the  monarch,  she  his  consort.  Classifying  others,  the  Empress 
found  herself  classified.  He  was  her  liege,  and  she  might  not 
even  enter  his  presence  unannounced.  But  how  much  happier 
was  she  in  the  blithe  sailor  prince  who  came  a-wooing,  who 
wooed  for  love,  in  accordance  with  that  same  ancient  chivalry! 

A  princess  of  the  Blood,  of  the  House  of  Orleans,  Charlotte 
had  had  that  nicest  poise  of  good  breeding,  the  kind  that  is 
unconscious.  But  here  among  the  Mexicans,  she  had  to  pro- 
claim a  superiority  not  taken  for  granted,  and  the  nice  poise 
was  gone.  In  her  the  generations — Henry  IV.,  the  Grand 
Monarch,  and  all  of  ftiat  stately  line — in  her  they  stooped.  And 
an  element  of  sheerest  vulgarity,  as  plebeian  as  a  Jew's  dia- 
mond, crept  in  perforce.  Poor  tarnished  escutcheon  of 
Orleans!  Poor  princess  of  the  Blood,  become  menial  with 
scouring  it!  She  was  weary.  Over  this  New  World  there 
floated  too  much  of  obscuring  democratic  dust.  So  she 


256  The  Missourian 

allowed  "ma'am,"  like  a  homely  fleck,  to  settle  unreproved 
on  the  ancestral  doorplate. 

Driven  to  expediency  for  her  very  Empire's  sake,  she  her- 
self trampled  on  the  Ritual.  Waiving  all  formalities,  they 
would  go  and  seek  out  His  Majesty.  He  must  be  somewhere 
in  the  gardens,  perhaps  beside  the  pond  with  its  fringe  of  deep 
shadows  from  the  trees.  There  they  expected  to  find  him, 
breathing  the  air  of  orange  blossoms,  gazing  enraptured  into 
the  water,  and  on  the  gold  fish  and  the  swans  and  the  fountains. 
He  would  be  teasing  Nature  for  a  sonnet's  inspiration. 

Driscoll  went  ahead,  since  Carlota  and  Eloin  talked  earnestly 
in  French,  intent  on  their  plot  for  the  persuasion  of  the  Em- 
peror. But  as  the  American  parted  a  clump  of  oleanders 
and  laden  rosebushes  that  hid  the  little  lake,  he  stopped, 
his  eyes  wide  on  something  just  beyond.  In  the  instant 
he  fell  back,  and  confronted  the  other  two  with  such  a  look 
on  his  face  that  both  started  in  vague  alarm.  They  saw 
the  sickened  look  of  one  who  turns  from  a  revolting  sight. 
A  wretch  stricken  suddenly  blind  may  know  at  once  the  fact  of 
a  terrible  grief,  yet  he  cannot  quite  at  first  gather  to  himself 
the  fullness  of  the  horror.  He  is  only  aware  that,  afterward, 
the  meaning  will  slowly  take  shape,  like  a  gradually  darkening 
despair. 

Driscoll  gazed  uncertainly  at  the  Empress,  as  though  she 
had  somehow  arrested  his  thoughts.  Then,  as  a  strong  man 
rushing  from  danger,  he  comprehended  that  here  was  a  frail 
woman  near  the  same  peril. 

"You  will  not  go,  ma'am,"  he  ordered  in  a  kind  of  terror 
for  her. 

Eloin  had  already  hastened  on  to  the  screen  of  roses.  Being 
a  fellow  of  the  arras  and  closets,  he  scented  a  royal  secret. 
The  Empress  lifted  her  shoulders  and  would  have  followed,  but 
Driscoll  did  not  hesitate.  He  took  her  by  the  elbow  and 
gently  turned  her  the  other  way. 


Carlota  257 

"You  must  not!"  he  said  again,  with  that  same  scared 
manner  on  him. 

She  bridled  indignantly,  but  when  she  saw  how  white  he 
was;  and  how  earnest,  something  there  awed  her.  In  a  flash  she 
understood.  Her  lip  curled,  baring  teeth  of  the  purest  pearl, 
and  a  sneer  quivered  on  the  highbred  nostrils.  But  suddenly, 
in  piteous  tumult,  her  breast  heaved  once,  and  betrayed  the 
wound.  It  gave  him  to  know  the  knighthood  which  covets 
blows  in  a  woman's  behalf.  But  she,  with  a  will  that  held 
him  in  admiration  and  reverence  for  her,  spoke  to  him,  and  her 
tone  was  even,  was  unbroken. 

"I  dare  say  you  are  right,"  she  said,  and  turned  to  retrace 
her  steps.  But,  as  if  to  drink  deeper  of  the  bitter  cup,  she 
paused,  and  forced  herself  to  a  last  word. 

"I  suppose  I  should  thank  you,"  she  went  on,  and  her  eyes, 
still  dry  of  tears,  were  lustrous  as  they  lifted  to  his,  "but  a 
gentleman — and  I  have  never  known  one  more  than  you,  sir, 
this  minute  past — will  understand  that  I  cannot — There,  I 
am  going  now.  And  after — after  this  that  you  have  just  be- 
held, I  shall  never  see  you  again,  sir.  Alas,  it's  the  more  pity. 
Such  as  you  are  rare,  even  in — in  my  world." 

Driscoll  watched  her  blankly  as  she  left  him,  her  head 
poised  high,  her  step  as  slow  as  dignity  itself.  His  own  face 
was  cruelly  drawn,  with  the  first  sickened  ghastliness  still  on 
him.  He  stumbled  to  a  bench,  and  sat  down.  But  there 
was  nothing  to  think  about,  nothing  he  could  think  about,  just 
then.  Yet  his  brain  was  full  to  throbbing,  and  he  had  no  con- 
sciousness of  where  he  was,  nor  of  the  passage  of  time. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID  NOT  HESITATE 

"The  soul  of  man  is  infinite  in  what  it  covets." — Ben  Jonson. 

STEALTHILY  £loin  drew  aside  the  bushes,  and  peered 
through.  The  tiny  pond  with  its  crystal  surface  sunk  deep  in 
foliage,  its  flowering  island  in  the  centre,  looked  not  unlike 
a  mirror  on  a  dining  table  luxuriantly  wreathed  by  garlands. 
The  Belgian  stared  greedily.  He  did  not  see  quite  what  Dris- 
coll  had  seen,  yet  he  saw  enough  to  draw  his  brow  to  a  nar- 
rowing fold  of  keenest  interest.  Jacqueline  was  seated  on  the 
raised  edge  of  the  basin,  pensively  dipping  a  hand  into  the 
water.  Her  plump  wrist  showed  rosy,  like  coral,  and  glancing 
sideways  now  and  again  at  a  poor  agitated  prince  striding  up 
and  down,  she  looked  as  she  did  that  day  in  the  small  boat, 
while  tempting  a  shark.  As  she  leaned  over,  the  line  of  her 
waist  and  neck  was  stately  and  beautiful;  and  there  were  the 
maddening  baby  tendrils  of  soft,  glowing  copper.  Maximilian 
had  evidently  found  her  there,  in  a  reverie  perhaps,  and  was 
at  sight  of  her  lured  to  some  act  bold  and  desirous;  for  just  as 
evidently,  if  his  flushed  face  and  the  way  he  bit  his  lip  were 
tokens,  he  had  that  moment  been  repelled,  filoin  watched 
them  avidly,  the  tall  archduke  pacing  up  and  down,  the  demure 
lady  seated  on  the  basin's  edge. 

"It  was  but  the  lowly  homage  of  a  prince,"  Maximilian 
cried  out  peevishly.  Such  was  his  apology. 

"Homage  of  a  play-king,"  she  corrected  him  with  exasper- 
ating sweetness. 

'5* 


The  Woman  Who  Did  Not  Hesitate          259 

He  turned  on  her  angrily.  "Why  do  you  say  that — a  play- 
king?" 

"Whose  embassies,"  she  proceeded  calmly,  "cringe  for 
recognition.  Like  beggars  they  prowl  about  that  White  House 
at  Washington,  yet  never  cross  the  threshold." 

Maximilian  was  too  amazed  for  denial.  "How  do  you 
know?"  he  exclaimed. 

"While  at  the  same  time,"  she  went  on,  "the  same  neighbor 
receives  the  minister  of  the  Mexican  republic,  and  sends  one 
in  turn.  But  no  matter.  The  marionettes  of  empire  can 
dance,  so  long  as  Napoleon  holds  the  strings.  Was  the 
princely  homage  a  make-believe,  too?" 

"But — but,  if  I  should  convince  you,  mademoiselle,  that  the 
majesty  which  only  asks  to  kneel  is  genuine?" 

Her  eyelids  narrowed,  and  she  looked  at  him  with  the 
oddest  smile. 

"You  know — sire — that  I  only  ask  to  be  convinced.  Where 
will  Your  Imperial  Highness  begin?" 

"Know  then  that  the  American  peasant  named  Lincoln, 
who  would  not  recognize  a  Hapsburg,  is  dead.  He  has  been 
assassinated.  He  will  no  longer  encourage  our  rebels  in 
Mexico." 

"That  poor  gentleman  whom  you  call  a  peasant,"  she 
returned  with  galling  frankness,  "was  greater  than  any  Haps- 
burg. He  was  fifty  million  people,  and  one  million  are  still 
under  arms.  Your  rebels  know  it.  They  still  cry,  'Viva  la 
Intervencion  del  Norte!'  But  go  on,  sire," 

He  chafed  under  her  mockery  in  the  title.  But  sitting  there, 
goading  an  imaginary  shark,  she  was  no  less  inciting  than 
when  he  had  ventured  his  caress. 

"They  are  of  no  consequence,"  he  burst  forth,  "neither  the 
Americans,  nor  the  dissidents.  Your  own  countrymen, 
mademoiselle,  will,  and  must,  assure  my  empire." 

"H'm'n,"  she  ejaculated,  with  a  quick  shrug.    "Even  the 


260  The  Missourian 

marshal,  greatly  against  his  will,  has  had  to  inform  \our 
Majesty  that  we  will  shortly  withdraw." 

"Then  I  shall  depend  on  my  subjects  alone!" 

She  contented  herself  with  repeating,  "Viva  la  Intervencion 
del  Norte!"  That  too,  was  ample  comment  as  to  the  loyalty 
of  his  subjects.  The  Emperor  paused  in  his  walk.  "Alas," 
he  sighed  wearily,  "a  Hapsburg  sacrifices  himself  to  regenerate  a 
people,  and — they  do  not  appreciate  it." 

Jacqueline  bent  her  head  to  hide  a  smile.  She  dreamily 
made  rings  in  the  water,  and  seemed  to  fall  into  his  mood  of 
poetic  melancholy.  "A  comedietta  of  an  empire,"  she  mused 
sympathetically,  "a  harlequinade,  nothing  more.  Grands 
dieux,  I  do  not  wonder  that  Your  Highness  finds  it  unworthy!" 

There  is  no  such  incense  to  a  man  as  when  he  imagines 
himself  understood  by  a  pretty  woman. 

Yet  the  temptress  now  found  herself  the  harder  to  master. 
It  was  the  thought  of  what  she  must  yet  do.  But  she  gave 
her  head  an  impatient  toss,  and  the  tears  that  had  come  were 
gone.  The  lines  of  her  mouth  tightened,  and  the  dangerous 
glint  shone  in  her  eyes.  "So,"  she  added,  almost  in  a  whisper, 
"you  did  not  mean  it,  sire,  when  you  offered  only  a  play- 
empire — to  me." 

She  knew  that  he  started  violently,  and  was  looking  down 
at  her.  But  she  kept  her  gaze  averted,  that  he  might  not  see 
the  hard  expression  there  that  was  merciless  for  them  both. 
He  did  see,  though,  the  long  lashes,  and  the  warm  pink  of  her 
forearm,  so  tantalizing  for  shark  or  man. 

"These  imperial  gardens,  they  are  beautiful,"  she  went  on 
softly,  "but,  helas,  they  are  not  the  Schonbrunn.  Nor  is 
Chapultepec  more  than  a  feeble  miniature  of  the  Hofburg. 
Oh,  the  wretched  farce!  The  wretched  farce,  sire, 
in  your  pretension  to — to  honor  me!  A  wooer  from 
the  throne,  indeed?  A  straw  throne — no,  no,  I  do  not 
like  it!" 


The  Woman  Who  Did  Not  Hesitate         261 

Then  she  let  him  see  her  eyes.  Half  raised,  half  veiled; 
they  held  the  daring  suggestion  hidden  in  her  words. 

"And  if,"  he  cried,  "and  if  we  were  in  the  Schonbrunn " 

"Yes,  yes,"  and  she  clapped  her  hands  with  delight,  "yes, 
where  the  heroic  figures  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  are  silhouetted 
against  the  sky,  where — 

"Never  mind  the  heroic  figures!  But  where  I  shall  be  really 
an  emperor,  the  Emperor  over  Austria,  over  Hungary.  Then, 
what  then?  Jeanne — Jacqueline,  tell  me!" 

She  had  brought  him  to  it.  Yet  her  face  clouded  pitifully, 
as  that  day  in  the  small  boat,  when  she  told  Ney  that  a  woman 
might  only  give.  Such  a  woman  too,  would  be  lost  for  the 
reason  that  she  would  not  hesitate.  Here  was  the  errand  of 
the  Sphinx,  and  achievement  at  her  hand.  Dainty  flower 
of  France,  yes!  But  in  truth,  what  was  she? 

"And  then?"  she  repeated,  and  the  maddening  promise  in 
her  voice  thrilled  him.  "Why,  sire,  I  suppose  that  I  could 
not  help  but  listen  to  you.  Yet  first,"  she  hastened  to  add 
with  subtle  emphasis,  "first,  you  would  have  to  give  up  your 
play  kingdom  here." 

His  blue  eyes  flashed.  "I  will!"  he  cried.  "It  shall  be 
mine,  the  Roman  empire  of  Charles  V.  They  are  tired  of  my 
brother  Franz.  Already  they  cry  out  for  me.  Our  mother 
made  an  uncle  abdicate  for  him,  I  will  do  as  much  for  myself. 
I  will,  Jeanne,  I  will!" 

Eloin  behind  his  screen  moved  uneasily. 

"The  devil  go  with  her!"  the  eavesdropper  muttered. 
"She'll  have  him  abdicating  himself  in  another  minute.  She 
must  be  stopped,  she  must!" 

He  tiptoed  back,  and  once  out  of  hearing,  he  ran.  He 
found  Driscoll  on  a  bench,  slowly  passing  his  fingers  through 
his  hair,  and  staring  fixedly  at  the  ground. 

"Coom,"  said  filoin,  "coom  quick!  He  is  alone.  You 
find  your  chance.  He  is  that  happy,  he  say  yes  to  anything." 


262  The  Missourian 

Driscoll  got  heavily  to  his  feet.  There  was  his  mission. 
For  the  sake  of  that,  for  the  sake  of  comrades  depending  on 
him,  he  would  go  and  once  more  offer  succor  to  this  libertine 
princelet. 

"No,  not  that  way,"  the  Belgian  directed.  "The  path  here, 
it  leads  the  more  direct  at  the  pond,  so.  Quick!"  He  knew 
that  foliage  would  hide  the  couple  until  Driscoll  should  turn 
the  corner  of  the  hedge  and  burst  on  them  squarely.  The 
American  hastened  down  the  walk.  ."  A  nice  surprise,  mutual." 
Eloin  chuckled  to  himself. 

Jacqueline  did  not  falter  before  her  victory.  She  knew  that 
Maximilian  rated  the  Mexican  throne  as  a  stepping-stone  to 
another  in  Europe.  She  knew  of  a  certain  family  pact  among 
the  Hapsburgs  and  how  it  rankled  in  Maximilian's  breast. 
Therein  he  had,  on  accepting  the  Mexican  throne,  solemnly 
renounced  all  right  of  inheritance  to  that  of  Austro-Hungary. 
But  she  knew  also  that  he  considered  his  oath  as  void,  since 
Franz  Josef  had  forced  it  on  him.  Craftily  she  pictured  the 
Mexican  enterprise,  how  instead  of  enhancing  his  prestige  at 
home,  it  but  turned  him  into  a  sorry  and  ridiculous  figure. 
And  so  she  won  the  child  of  Destiny.  Yet,  when  in  a  sudden 
fervent  outburst  he  came  and  sat  beside  her,  and  would  have 
taken  her  hand,  she  still  did  not  falter.  Napoleon  would  have 
the  glory,  and  she  a  shame  unexplained,  but  for  all  that  her 
country  would  have  Mexico.  Her  country  would  have  Mexico! 
Would  have  a  vast  expanse  of  empire,  greater  and  more 
enduring  than  any  won  for  her  by  Bonaparte  himself. 

Nevertheless,  she  brushed  away  the  gallant's  arm  with  more 
vigor  than  her  coy  role  demanded.  "No,  no,"  she  moaned 
faintly,  "not  yet!" 

"But,  cruelle " 

"Not  yet,  not  until  I  know  that  you  will  try  to  win  in 
Austria,  not  until — you  abdicate  here!" 

"But,  I  shall  sail  this  very  month,  I " 


The  Woman  Who  Did  Not  Hesitate         263 

"And  never  return,  never  to  Mexico?" 

"Never!" 

Frankly,  then,  she  placed  her  hands  in  his. 

That  moment  Driscoll  turned  the  corner  of  the  hedge,  and 
was  before  them.  He  fell  back,  and  reddened  as  though 
himself  caught  in  wrongdoing.  It  was  strange  how  he  noted, 
at  such  a  time,  that  she  was  clothed  in  light  blue,  in  the 
very  dress  he  had  given  her.  But  no,  he  perceived  at  once 
that  it  was  of  some  delicate  silk  from  Japan.  Yet  the  pattern 
was  so  nearly  the  same.  She  must  have  selected  it — she  had 
selected  it! — with  him  in  mind.  And  now,  against  a  girl's 
love  so  quaintly,  shyly  revealed,  to  behold  this  contrast,  her 
hands  there,  wantonly  surrendered! 

Instantly  she  tore  herself  free  and  confronted  him. 

"Oh,  why,  why,"  she  cried  fiercely,  "did  you  not  let  them 
kiU  you?" 

Suddenly  her  hands  flew  up  to  her  hot  face.  "Then,"  she 
moaned,  "then  you  would  not  have  lived  to  see!" 

The  Emperor  stepped  between  them.  Tall,  severe,  he  was 
cold  in  anger. 

"It's  the  intrusion  of  a  rowdy,  mademoiselle."  To  Driscoll 
he  said,  "Now,  go!" 

Utterly  confused,  the  trooper  turned  to  obey.  But  at  the 
first  step  he  swung  round,  looking  as  he  had  never  looked  in 
the  bloodiest  of  cavalry  charges. 

"I  am  here  for  your  answer,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Answer?    What  answer,   fellow?" 

Driscoll  breathed  once,  he  breathed  twice,  and  yet  again. 
It  may  be  he  counted  them.  Then  he  spoke. 

"You  understand,  of  course,  that  I  might  call  you  a  puppy? 
Or  break  you  over  my  knee  ?  But  I've  got  something  harder 
on  hand.  It's  to  make  you  honor  your  promise.  I've  ridden 
forty  miles  for  what  you  were  to  give  me  six  hours  ago  at 
Chapultepec.  Now  then,  shall  I  bring  the  men  to  save  your 


264  The  Missourian 

empire?  Think  well.  You  need  not  take  the  question 
from  me.  Take  it  from  them,  from  an  army  of  fifty 
thousand  men.  Now,  answer!  And  remember,  you  can  save 
your  empire." 

"Save  my  empire?"  Maximilian  repeated  the  words. 

There  was  a  reluctant  note  in  the  query.  Jacqueline  heard. 
And  the  bravest  act  of  her  life  was  when  she  raised  her  head 
and  faced  her  shame,  with  him  to  see.  She  must  begin  her 
fight  all  over  again. 

"Yes,  your  play  empire,  sire,"  she  said,  wielding  two 
weapons,  the  mockery  in  her  voice,  the  seduction  of  her  eyes. 

Driscoll  saw  his  cause  forlorn  against  eyes  like  those. 

"It's  unfair!"  he  protested  involuntarily. 

She  turned  on  him  in  defiance.  "It  is  not  unfair!  And 
you,  monsieur,  of  all  men,  know  that  it  is  not.  You,  and  you 
alone,  know  what  I,  what  I  would  give — what  I  tried  to  give — 
that  I  might  win  in  this!" 

He  could  not  help  a  thrill  of  admiration.  She  was  battling 
against  all  men  and  women  to  change  the  destinies  of  two 
continents. 

"W'y,  I  take  it  back  then,"  he  said. 

She  stared  at  him  in  wonder,  and  drew  farther  away.  It 
was  his  tone,  altered  as  she  could  never  have  thought  possible, 
nor  had  she  known  that  aught  on  earth  might  hurt  her  so. 
She  heard  a  decent  man  addressing  some  unavoidable  word 
to  a  strumpet.  All  vestige  of  respect  was  gone,  gone  uncon- 
sciously, except  that  respect  for  himself  which  would  not  allow 
that  the  word  be  coarse  or  an  insult.  She  looked  in  vain, 
too,  for  a  trace  of  anger.  Once  she  had  sought  to  kill  him, 
but  that  had  not  changed  his  big  heart.  While  now!  How 
much — oh,  how  much  easier — was  that  other  sacrifice  of 
hers  than  this! 

"Perhaps,  sir,"  she  found  the  strength  to  say,  "perhaps  I 
have  even,  in  my  humble  opinion,  favored  the  acceptance 


The  Woman  Who  Did  Not  Hesitate         265 

of  your  offer.  But  His  Majesty  knows  far  better  than  I  under 
what  conditions  he  might  accept." 

Driscoll  turned  to  Maximilian  direct.     "Name  them." 

"There  is  but  one.  We  cannot  give  refuge  to  the  enemies 
of  the  United  States " 

"The  conditions?" 

"Therefore,  to  avoid  complications,  your  men  must  lay 
down  their  arms  on  entering  Mexico.  Then  we  would  deliver 
the  arms  to  the  United  States  on  their  recognizing  Our  Em- 
pire  " 

"Trade  us  off,  you  mean?" 

"Or,  in  case  the  United  States  still  held  aloof,  then,  as 
citizens  of  Mexico,  you  could  take  up  your  arms  again." 

Driscoll  looked  at  Jacqueline.  She,  the  inspiration  of  such 
a  condition,  knew  quite  well  beforehand  that  he  would  not 
submit. 

"This  is  final,  is  it?"  he  demanded. 

"It  is,  because  We  cannot  provoke  war  with  the  United 
States,  but,"  Maximilian  urged  querulously,  "you  have  only 
to  surrender  your  swords." 

"After  refusing  them  to  the  Federals,  to  the  men  who 
fought  for  them  ?  And  now  we  are  to  give  them  up  to  a  pack 

of "  Driscoll  stopped  short  and  took  another  breath.  "By 

God,  sir,  no  sir!"  he  cried. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
A  SPONSOR  FOR  THE  FAT  PADRE 

"  Every  man  is  as  heaven  made  him,  and  sometimes  a  great  deal  worse." 

— Cervantes. 

WHEN  Driscoll  had  gone,  Jacqueline  would  not  linger. 
Maximilian  sought  to  detain  her,  but  something  had  happened 
that  he  could  not  fathom.  She  was  no  more  the  same  person. 

"Not  even  a  token  to  bid  me  be  brave  so  far  away  in 
Austria?"  he  pleaded. 

"There  have  been  tokens  enough,"  she  returned  shortly. 
"I  ask  Your  Majesty's  leave.  Good-night." 

She  gained  her  room,  and  worked  till  late  on  a  cipher  dis- 
patch to  Napoleon.  Its  purport  was,  that  now,  if  ever,  Max- 
imilian must  be  discouraged  absolutely.  Following  on  what 
she  herself  had  done,  such  would  bring  his  abdication.  She 
implored,  above  all  things,  that  Bazaine  be  kept  from  meddling, 
from  extending  false  hopes.  Poor  girl,  after  what  it  had  cost, 
she  was  passionately  bent  on  success.  A  courier  took  her 
packet  to  the  City  the  next  day,  whence  the  message  was 
to  be  sped  to  Paris. 

"That  foolish  Prince  Max,"  she  thought,  "if  he  does  give 
it  up  and  go,  I  am  really  saving  him  from  terrible  sorrow. 
But,  who  will  save  me  from  mine,  I  wonder?  Mine,  that  is 
come  already!  God  in  Heaven  cannot." 

Maximilian  had  watched  her  as  she  left  him,  till  her  stately 
girlish  figure  was  lost  in  the  dusk  under  the  trees.  Then  with 
a  sigh  he  turned  away.  At  the  villa  he  found  his  wife.  She 
was  seated  apart  from  her  maids,  and  Eloin  was  talking  to  her, 

266 


A  Sponsor  for  the  Fat  Padre  267 

in  tones  low  and  swift.  Charlotte  only  half  listened.  Her 
agitation  was  nearly  hysterical.  Her  eyes  gleamed  wildly, 
and  sometimes  they  would  close,  as  though  they  ached  for  the 
soothing  that  tears  might  bring. 

"Who,"  demanded  Maximilian,  "has  had  the  presumption 
to  introduce  a  spy  on  these  grounds?" 

Eloin  glanced  quickly  at  the  Empress.  "A  spy,  sire?"  he 
said  uneasily. 

"I  mean  that  American,  sir.  But  shall  I  ask  the  sentinels 
at  the  gate?" 

"That,  Ferdinand,"  Charlotte  interposed  icily,  "is  not 
necessary.  Monsieur  filoin,  at  my  command,  brought  the 
American  here.  You  should  know  why." 

"To  save  my  play-empire,  I  suppose?" 

"An  empire,"  she  cried,  catching  up  the  word  the  more 
hotly  because  she  knew  it  to  be  Jacqueline's  own  gage  of 
battle,  "an  empire,  August  Sire,  to  be  gained  by  fighting, 
as  your  forefathers,  as  mine,  won  theirs.  And  that  is  nobler, 
7  suppose,  than  puny  inheritance.  I  do  not  know  what  the 
Hapsburg  may  be  fallen  to,  but  a  daughter  of  Orleans  still 
has  the  right  to  expect  a  crown  from  her  husband.  If  not, 
she  is  unworthily  mated." 

Maximilian  thought  of  that  other  empire,  which  that  other 
temptress  exacted  of  him.  It  seemed  that  he  had  many  realms 
to  conquer.  But  the  grimmest  humor  of  all  was  that 
he  blithely  imagined  himself  capable  of  satisfying  the 
whims,  not  of  one  woman,  but  of  two.  Deluded  Prince 
Max! 

But  the  Emperor  was  not  there  to  discuss  empire  building, 
much  less  to  face  the  tigerish  light  in  his  lady's  eyes. 

"Monsieur  £loin,"  he  said,  "this  is  my  first  personal  com- 
plaint against  you,  but  there  have  been  others,  long,  insistent 
ones,  from  French  and  Mexicans  alike.  You  lose  me  my 
friends,  sir,  however  I  assure  them  that  you  have  not  the 


268  The  Missourian 

slightest  influence  over  my  policy.     So,  after  the  awkward 
intrusion  of  to-day,  I  am  resolved  that  you  had  best  leave  us." 

"Your  Majesty  desires " 

"That  you  leave  the  country  at  once,  Monsieur  Eloin.' 

"But,"  protested  Charlotte,  "that  is  open  disgrace.  At 
least  cover  it  with  the  pretext  of  some  mission." 

The  downcast  courtier  took  heart.  Watching  his  master 
with  narrowed  sycophant  eyes,  he  said,  "But  it  need  not  be  a 
pretext,  sire.  Since  I  must  leave  Your  Highness,  permit  me, 
then,  to  find  my  mission,  and  one  in  which  I  can  still  serve  my 
sovereign,  though  in  spite  of  himself." 

Imperceptibly  Maximilian  fell  under  the  spell  of  the  old 
fawning. 

"And  what  mission  could  that  be,  my  good  friend?" 

"To  feel  the  Austrian  pulse,  sire.  To  know  when  the  time 
is  ripe,  to  hasten  the  time " 

"The  time  for  what?" 

"For  Your  Majesty's  return.  Even  now  the  unpopularity 
of  His  Imperial  Highness,  Franz — 

"Eloin!"  Maximilian  stopped  him  sharply.  But  he 
could  not  hide  the  flash  of  his  own  blue  eyes. 

"What  would  Your  Majesty?  In  Vienna,  in  Budapest,  in 
your  own  Venetia,  sire,  they  long  for  you;  at  least  as  regent 
till  the  crown  prince  shall  come  of  age.  Would  you  rebuke 
them  also,  as  you  do  me?" 

Charlotte  stared  at  the  Belgian  in  amazement  and  distrust. 
He  had  only  just  warned  her  how  Jacqueline  had  kindled 
Maximilian's  Austrian  hopes  in  order  to  get  him  out  of 
Mexico,  and  here  he  was  borrowing  that  woman's  guile.  And 
here  was  Maximilian,  too,  softening  under  the  enervating 
blandishment,  softening  behind  his  frowns  for  the  officious 
meddler. 

"There,  there,  FJoin,"  he  said,  "you  know  that  I  must  be 
inexorable.  But  in  the  Journal  Officiel  it  will  appear  that  you 


A  Sponsor  for  the  Fat  Padre  269 

are  gone  on  a  secret  mission,  though  you  have  no  mission  at  all, 
None  at  all,  do  you  understand,  sir?" 

Eloin  protested  that  he  understood. 

"None,"  repeated  the  Emperor,  "except  to  win  back  my 
confidence.  When  you  have  taken  leave  of  Her  Majesty, 
you  may  come  to  my  cabinet  to  bid  me  farewell." 

As  Maximilian  left  them,  Charlotte  turned  on  the  favorite. 
"Indeed,  Monsieur  filoin?"  she  said  in  utter  scorn. 

"But,  Your  Majesty " 

"Is  Napoleon,  then,  so  liberal  a  paymaster?" 

"Your  Majesty!"  and  in  genuine  distress  the  courtier 
hurried  on.  "If  you  would  listen,  Madame!  'Tis  true  that 
Jeanne  d'Aumerle  has  found  the  surest  lever  to  pry  His  High- 
ness out  of  Mexico " 

"So  good  a  lever,  that  you  would  use  it  too,  to  topple  over 
my  throne." 

"Not  so,  Madame.  It's  a  cunning  lever,  yes;  but  7  shall 
use  another  fulcrum." 

"Really,  monsieur,  if  I  were  in  the  mood  for  riddles  and 
such  pretty  trifles,  I'd  ask  you  to  favor  Us  with  a  chansonnette." 

"But  this  is  as  plain  as  day.  First,  our  little  intrigante 
knows  that  if  His  Majesty  tries  for  the  Austrian  throne,  he 
must  leave  Mexico.  That  is  her  lever  to  move  him.  But 
suppose  we  shift  it  to  my  fulcrum.  Then,  whatever  encourages 
his  hopes  for  Austria,  will  make  him  but  the  more  determined 
to  cling  to  Mexico.  For  to  succeed  in  Austria,  he  must  triumph 
first  in  Mexico.  He  must  prove  to  Europe  that  he  can  reign 
brilliantly.  But  if  he  abandons  Mexico,  as  Jacqueline  would 
persuade  him,  what  of  his  prestige  then?  What  of  his  glory 
to  dazzle  the  Austrians?  If  Your  Majesty  would  suggest  to 
him  this  phase " 

"And  you,  meanwhile  in  Europe?" 

"Oh,  I  shall  find  his  chances  good  over  there,  but  conditional 
on  his  success  here." 


270 


The  Missourian 


"Monsieur  filoin,  I  find  that  I  must  congratulate  you. 
More,  I  even  regret  that  you  are  going,  for  I  dread  that  some 
other  will  replace  you  in  favor  with  the  Emperor  who " 

"Who  may  not  be  in  accord  with  our  views,  Your  Majesty 
would  say?  But  if  you  will  permit,  Madame,  I  believe  I 
know  quite  a  different  man.  Moreover,  he  has  already  made 
an  impression  on  His  Highness,  during  our  brief  stay  at  an 
hacienda  in  the  Huasteca.  Now  he  is  here.  I  brought  him 
to  commend  as  a  future  loyal  follower." 

"Pray,  who  is  the  paragon?" 

"A  priest,  Madame,  a  German  priest,  who  perhaps  would 
not  refuse  the  Bishopric  of  Durango.  The  hope  of  that 
rich  see  would  insure  his  devotion.  His  name  is  Fischer. 
He  is  a  clerical,  he  is  an  imperialist,  he  is  resourceful.  Our 
Jacqueline  will  have  much  to  do  to  outwit  him.  This 
corpulent  padre,  Madame,  would  wheedle  the  sulky  pope 
himself  into  a  good  humor  with  us.  If  I  might  venture 
so  far  as  to  present  him  before " 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Charlotte  wearily. 


PART  SECOND 

THE  ROSE  THAT  WAS  A  THORN 
IN  THE  LAND  OF  ROSES 


The  rugged  battle  of  fate,  where  strength  is  born." 

— Em  erf  on. 


CHAPTER  I 

MEAGRE  SHANKS 

".     .    .    and  should  a  man  full  of  talk  be  justified  ?" — Book  of  Job. 

A  the  hotel  in  the  City  of  Mexico  where  Driscoll  stopped, 
the  entrance  was  big  enough  for  a  stage  coach  to  drive 
through.  But  as  to  height,  it  did  not  seem  any  too 
great  for  the  attenuation  of  Mr.  Daniel  Boone,  who  therein 
had  propped  himself  at  his  ease,  delightfully  suggesting  a 
tropical  gentleman  lounging  on  a  veranda  under  the  live  oaks. 
One  shoulder  was  impinged  on  the  casing  of  the  archway, 
from  which  contact  his  spare  frame  drifted  out  and  downward, 
to  the  supporting  base  of  one  boot  sole.  The  other  boot 
crossed  it  over,  and  the  edge  of  the  toe  rested  on  the  pavement 
of  the  Calle  de  los  Plateros,  familiarly  so-called. 

Mr.  Boone  hailed  from  Boonville,  but  in  Missouri,  with 
Kentucky  for  ancestral  State,  such  was  not  a  strained  coinci- 
dence by  any  means.  An  individual  there  of  the  name  of 
Boone,  and  a  bit  of  geography  likewise  distinguished,  are  bound 
to  fall  together  occasionally.  For  instance,  a  flea's  hop  over 
the  map,  and  Mr.  Boone  and  Boonville  both  might  have 
claimed  the  county  of  Boone.  Under  the  circumstances, 
Daniel's  Christian  name  was  the  most  obviously  Christian 
thing  his  parents  could  do>  and  followed  (to  precede  thereafter) 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

Now,  Missouri,  in  the  beginning  of  the  Civil  War,  was  a 
very  Flanders  for  battles,  and  this  sort  of  thing  had  ended  by 
disturbing  Mr.  Boone  considerably  in  the  manipulation  of  an 

273 


274  The  Missourian 

old  hand-press,  dubbed  his  Gutenberg,  which  worked  with  a 
lever  and  required  some  dozen  processes  for  each  impression 
of  the  Boonville  Semi-Weekly  Javelin.  Finally,  when  Joe 
Shelby  and  his  pack  of  fire-eaters  were  raiding  Missouri  for 
the  second  time,  Daniel  plaintively  laid  down  his  stick  in  the 
middle  of  an  editorial  on  Black  Republicans,  and  what  should 
be  done  to  them.  The  shooting  outside  had  gotten  on  his 
nerves  at  last.  That  blazing  away  of  Missourians  back  home 
made  him  homesick.  He  was  like  the  repressed  boy  called  out 
by  the  gang  to  go  coasting.  And  he  went.  An  editorial  by 
example,  he  went  to  do  unto  the  Black  Republicans  somewhat 
personally.  The  Javelinier  was  a  young  man  yet. 

''There's  been  rumors  hitherto  about  the  pen  and  the 
sword,"  he  mused,  "but  type,  now — that's  hot!"  Wherewith 
he  emptied  his  cases  into  a  sack,  took  down  a  squirrel  rifle, 
chased  off  his  devil,  locked  in  the  Gutenberg,  and  joined  the 
raiders.  Flinging  his  burden  of  metal  at  General  Shelby's 
feet,  he  said,  "There  sir,  is  The  Javelin  in  embryo  for  months 
to  come.  Now  it's  pi,  which  we'll  sho'ly  feed  out  by  the  bullet 
weight,  sir." 

From  then  on  the  newspaper  man  followed  his  proclivities 
and  turned  scout,  and  it  was  a  vigilant  foe  that  could  scoop 
him  on  the  least  of  their  movements,  whether  in  the  field  or  in 
their  very  stronghold,  St.  Louis  itself. 

At  the  present  moment  Mr.  Boone  was  retrieving  a  lost 
familiarity  with  good  cigars.  There  was  a  black  one  of  the 
Valle  Nacional  in  his  mouth,  and  also  in  his  mouth  there  was 
a  wisp  of  straw.  The  steel-blue  smoke  floated  out  lazily, 
which  his  steel-blue  eyes  regarded  with  appreciation.  It 
was  an  Elysium  of  indolence.  The  cigar,  the  not  having 
to  kill  anybody  for  a  few  minutes,  and  a  place  to  lean  against, 
these  were  content.  Troubadour  phrases  droned  soothingly 
in  his  brain.  Of  course  he  had  to  apostrophize  the  snow- 
clads: 


Meagre  Shanks  275 

"Popo,  out  there,  grand,  towering,  whose  frosty  nose 
sniffs  the  vault  of  heaven,  whose  mantle  of  fleecy  cloud  wraps 
him  as  the  hoary  locks  of  a  giant,  whose — Sho',  if  I  had  some 
copy  paper  now,  I'd  get  you  fixed  right,  you  slippery  old 
codger!" 

The  wisp  of  straw  hardly  tallied  with  poesy  of  soul,  nor  did 
the  lank  figure  and  lean  face,  nor  the  cavalry  uniform,  badly 
worn,  though  lately  new,  nor  yet  the  sagging  belt  with  dragoon 
pistols.  But  the  eyes  did.  Tho^e  eyes  held  the  eloquence  of  the 
youth  of  a  race.  They  were  gentle,  or  they  flashed,  according 
to  what  passed  within.  It  did  not  matter  necessarily  what 
might  be  going  on  without.  They  would  as  likely  dart  sparks 
during  prayer  meeting,  or  soften  as  a  lover's  mid  the  charge  on 
a  battery.  Shaggy  moustached  Daniel,  not  yet  thirty,  was  a 
scholar  too,  of  the  true  old  school,  where  dead  languages 
lived  to  consort  familiarly  with  men,  and  neither  had  to  be 
buried  out  of  the  world  because  of  the  comradeship.  Once, 
in  Pompeii,  Daniel  blundered  suddenly  on  that  mosaic  door- 
mat which  bears  the  warning,  "Cave  canem";  and  before  he 
thought,  he  glanced  anxiously  around,  half  expecting  a  dog 
that  could  have  barked  at  Saint  Peter  himself.  From  which 
it  appears  that  the  editor  had  traveled,  and  it  would  not  be 
long  in  also  appearing  that  he  had  gathered  enough  of  polite 
and  variegated  learning  to  fill  a  warehouse,  in  which  junk- 
shop  he  was  constantly  rummaging,  and  bringing  forth  queer 
specimens  of  speech  wherewith  to  flower  his  inspirations. 

Streaming  back  and  forth  before  the  shops  in  lively  Plateros 
street  were  elegance  and  fashion  and  display,  the  languishing 
beauty  of  Spain,  the  brilliancy  of  the  Second  Empire,  the 
Teuton's  martial  strutting,  the  Mexican's  elation  that  Europe 
had  come  to  him  and  with  the  money  to  pay  for  it.  The 
toughened  Boone  gazed  on  the  bright  morning  parade  of 
ravishing  shoppers  and  ogling  cavaliers  with  the  unterrified 
innocence  of  a  child,  or  of  an  American.  He  had  the  air  of 


276  The  Missourian 

doing  nothing,  such  as  only  a  newspaper  man  can  have  when 
really  at  work.  He  did  not  look  as  though  he  were  waiting 
for  some  one.  But  only  a  half-hour  before  he  had  gotten 
from  the  saddle.  He  had  just  ridden  four  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  for  the  express  purpose  of  waiting  for  someone 
now. 

Finally  the  keen,  lazy  eyes  singled  out  an  immense  yellow 
horse  and  rider  from  among  the  luxurious  turnouts.  "Jack!" 
he  exclaimed  gladly.  "The  Storm  Centre,"  he  improvised, 
as  the  new  comer  approached,  "straight  as  Tecumseh,  a  great 
bronzed  Ajax,  mighty  thewed,  as  strong  of  hand  as  of  diges- 
tion— "w'y,  bless  my  soul,  the  boy  looks  pow'ful  dejected, 
knocked  plum'  galley-west!  I  never  saw  him  look  like  that 
before." 

Man  and  horse  had  come  all  night  from  Cuernavaca.  But 
Din  Driscoll  never  tired,  wherefore  Boone  knew  that  something 
was  the  matter.  At  the  doorway  Driscoll  flung  himself  from 
the  saddle,  gave  the  bridle  to  a  porter  of  the  hotel,  and  was 
following,  his  face  the  picture  of  gloom,  when  he  heard  the 
words,  "How'  yuh,  Jack?"  His  brow  cleared  in  the  instant. 
"Shanks!"  he  cried,  gripping  the  other's  hand. 

Mr.  Boone  untwined  his  boots  and  for  the  first  time  during 
a  half-hour  stood  in  them.  As  he  shook  Driscoll's  hand,  he 
shook  his  own  head,  and  at  last  observed,  in  the  way  of  con- 
tinuing a  conversation,  "It  was  the  almightiest  soaking  rain, 
Din,  for  the  land's  sake! "  And  he  shook  his  head  again,  quite 
mournfully. 

Driscoll  had  not  seen  Mr.  Boone  since  leaving  Shelby's 
camp  back  in  Arkansas.  He  naturally  wished  to  know  what 
was  being  talked  about.  But  his  woeful  friend  only  kept  on, 
"It  wet  all  Texas,  heavier'n  a  sponge,  and,"  he  added,  "they 
ain't  coming." 

"Shanks!    You  don't  mean " 

"Don't  I?    But  I  do.     They're  a  surrendered  army.     The 


Meagre  Shanks  277 

whole  Trans-Mississippi  Department  of  'em,  pretty  near. 
But  not  quite,  bear  that  in " 

"But  the  rain?    What  in " 

"What  did  you  come  down  here  for,  I'd  like  to  know?  To 
say  how  the  Trans-Mississippi  wouldn't  surrender,  didn't 
you?  Well?" 

"Oh,  go  on!" 

"Well,  it  rained,  I  tell  you.  Didn't  it  rain  before  Waterloo? 
Didn't  it  now?" 

Mr.  Boone  believed  in  trouble  as  an  antidote  for  trouble. 
When  he  had  stirred  Driscoll  out  of  his  dejection  enough  to 
make  him  want  to  fight,  he  deigned  to  clear  the  atmosphere 
of  that  befogging  downpour  in  Texas. 

"You  rec'lect,  Din,  that  there  war  god  we  put  up  in  Kirby 
Smith's  place,  who  so  dashingly  would  lead  us  on  to  Mexico?" 

"Buckner,  yes." 

"Him,  Simon  Bolivar  B.,  whose  gold  lace  glittered  as 
though  washed  by  the  dew  and  wiped  with  the  sunshine " 

"Now,  Shanks,  drop  it!"  Driscoll  was  referring  to  the 
editorial  pen  which  Mr.  Boone  would  clutch  and  get  firmly  in 
hand  with  the  least  rise  of  emotion.  Against  his  other  con- 
versation, the  clutching  always  became  at  once  apparent. 

"Anyhow,"  said  Daniel  meekly,  "he  wilted,  did  our  Simon 
of  B.  B.  calibre,  and  he  gave  back  the  command  to  Smith. 
And  Smith's  first  order,  his  very  first  order,  sir,  was  that  the 
Department,  the  whole  fifty  thousand,  should  march  into 
Shrevepoht  and — and  surrender,  by  thunder!" 

"Dan,  you're  not  going  to  tell  me " 

"That  we  surrendered,  we,  the  Missourians,  the  flower  of 
'em  all?  Now  s'pose'you  just  wait  till  Joe  Shelby  gets  back 
to  us  in  Arkansas,  after  that  conference  with  the  other  generals  ? 
Then  you'll  see  what  he  does.  He  proclaims  things,  on  wall 
paper.  The  Missouri  Cavalry  Division  will  march  to  Shreve- 
poht, will  depose  Smith  for  good,  will  head  off  the  surrender, 


278  The  Missourian 

will  lead  the  other  divisions  on  to  Mexico.  And  we  started 
to  do  it  too.  And  then,  and  then — it  rained.  Rained,  sir, 
till  our  trains  and  guns  were  mired,  and  we  couldn't  budge! 
And  all  the  time  we  knew  that  regiment  after  regiment  was 
stacking  arms  off  there  at  Shrevepoht.  Did  Little  Joe  rave? 
Opened  Job  his  mouth?  He  did.  His  fluency  gave  the 
rain  pointers.  I  sho'ly  absorbed  some  myself,  me,  that 
have  language  tanks  of  my  own.  Well,  I  reckon  all  our 
hearts  pretty  near  broke.  But  we  had  our  Missouri  general 
and  our  Missouri  governor,  and  the  Old  Brigade  just 
decided  to  come  along  anyhow.  And  we're  a  coming,  Din, 
we're  a  coming!" 

Driscoll's  face  went  blank.  He  thought  of  the  scant  welcome 
his  homeless  comrades  would  get.  But  Mr.  Boone  did  not 
notice.  He  had  only  stretched  his  canvas,  a  big  one,  and 
there  was  a  picture  to  paint.  His  long  body  began  to  straighten 
out,  and  his  eyes  glowed.  From  Xenophon  to  Irving's  Astoria, 
from  Hannibal  crossing  the  Alps  to  Marching  Through  Georgia, 
he  ransacked  both  romance  and  the  classics  for  adequate 
tints,  but  in  vain.  The  colors  would  have  to  be  of  his  own 
mixing. 

"Din  Driscoll,"  he  began  solemnly,  "you  know  that  devil 
breed?  Of  coh'se,  you're  one  of  'em.  You're  a  chunk  of 
brimstone,  yourself.  And  you'll  maybe  rec'lect  they  did 
some  fighting  off  and  on.  There  was  that  raw  company,  f'r 
instance — boys,  hardly  a  one  broke  in  his  yoke  of  oxen  yet — 
and  they  hadn't  even  gotten  their  firearms,  but  they  took  a 
battery  with  their  naked  hands,  and  got  themselves  all  tangled 
up  in  the  fiery  woof  of  death.  But  you'll  not  be  rec'lecting 
that  that  there  Brigade  ever  lost  a  gUn.  And  those  raids, 
Din,  back  into  Missouri,  a  handful  back  into  the  Federal 
country,  when  men  dozed  and  dropped  from  their  saddles 
and  still  did  not  wake  up,  and  some  went  clean  daft  for  want 
of  sleep,  and  fighting  steady  all  around  the  clock  too,  fair  and 


Meagre  Shanks  279 

square  over  into  Kansas !  And  there  was  the  night  they  buried 
eight  hundred!" 

In  all  this  Daniel  might  have  said  "We,"  but  reportorial 
modesty  forbade. 

"And,"  he  went  on,  gaining  momentum,  "I  don't  reckon 
you'll  be  forgetting  Arkansas,  and  the  ague  and  rattlesnakes? 
And  how  the  small-pox  swooped  down  on  that  camp  of  cane 
shacks  ?  And  how  the  quinine  gave  out,  and — and  the  tobacco? 
Lawd! — And  how  those  boys  forgot  how  to  sew  patches, 
their  rags  being  so  far  gone!  And  how  they  made  bridles 
out  of  bark,  and  coffee  out  of  corn!  And  how  they  kneaded 
dough  in  old  rubber  blankets  and  cooked  it  on  rocks!  Well, 
Jack,  there  they  were,  in  Arkansas  like  that,  and  the  War 
was  over  at  last,  and  Missouri  was  just  a  waiting  for 
'em.  And  then,  to  think  that  they  had  to  face  square 
around  another  way  entirely!  Din,  you'll  just  try  to 
imagine  that  there  devil  breed  facing  any  other  way  except 
to'ds  home!" 

"Don't,  Shanks,  you " 

"Devils?  They  were  the  wildest  things  that  are.  It's  a 
mighty  good  thing  they  didn't  go  back.  Think  of  their  neigh- 
bors across  the  Kansas  line,  getting  ready  for  'em  with  every 
sort  of  legal  persecution  under  the  sun,  and  carpet-bag  judges 
to  help!  Outlaw  decrees?  Well,  I  reckon  those  decrees 
will  make  a  few  outlaws,  all  right,  and  there'll  be  unsurrendered 
Johnny  Rebs  ten  years  from  now.  Shelby's  boys  had  the  look 
of  it.  Your  own  Jackson  county  regiment  would  have  flared 
into  desperadoes  at  sight  of  a  United  States  marshal.  They 
were  all  in  just  that  sort  o'  mood,  as  they  turned  their  backs 
on  Missouri.  And  after  four  years,  too!  But  there,  it's  a 
stiff  wind  that  has  no  turning,  so  cheer  up!  They  did,  as  soon 
as  that  deluge  got  done  with  and  they  were  headed  for  Mexico, 
one  thousand  of  'em.  Soldiers  mus'n't  repine,  you  know. 
For  them,  Fate  arrays  herself  in  April's  capricious  sunshine." 


280  The  Missourian 

Driscoll  had  to  smile.  "Careful,  there,  Dan,  don't  stam- 
pede." 

"I  ain't,  but  if  now  'I  hold  my  tongue  I  shall  give  up  the 
ghost,'  and  I  want  to  tell  you  first  that  Texas  is  a  handsome 
state.  We — they — were  considerable  interested  all  the  way 
through  it." 

"But,  Meagre  Shanks,  where'd  you  leave  'em?" 

"Back  in  Monterey,  drinking  champagne  with  Fat  Jenny. 
A-las,  'who  can  stay  the  bottles  of  heaven?'" 

"Fat— who's  she?" 

"Now  you  wait.  They've  got  heaps  to  do  in  Texas  yet, 
before  they  get  to  Fat  Jenny.  First,  they  helped  themselves 
out  of  their  own  commissary  departments,  horses,  provisions 
trains,  cannon,  everything.  Decently  uniformed  for  the  first 
time,  and  the  War  over!  You  should  of  seen  'em,  a  forest  of 
Sharpe's  carbines,  a  regular  circulating  library  of  Beecher 
Bibles.  There  were  four  Colts  and  a  dragoon  sabre  and 
thousands  of  rounds  of  ammunition  to  each  man.  They  had 
fighting  tools  to  spare,  and  they  cached  a  lot  of  the  stuff  up  in 
the  state  of  Coahuila.  And  they  fed,  and  got  sleek.  This 
ain't  editorial,  my  boy.  It's  God's  own  truth.  Adventures 
every  step  of  the  way  only  did  'em  good.  They  saved  whole 
towns  from  renegade  looters  by  just  mentioning  Shelby's 
name.  They  fought  all  day  and  danced  all  night.  San  An- 
tone  was  the  best.  There  they  gathered  in  generals,  governors, 
senators,  and  even  Kirby  Smith,  all  yearning  to  join  Old  Joe — 
our  Old  Joe,  who  ain't  thirty-four  yet." 

The  speaker  paused,  and  when  he  began  again,  there  was  a 
light  ominous  of  inspiration  in  his  eyes. 

"At  the  Rio  Grande,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "they  crossed  out 
of  the  Confederacy  forever,  so  it  was  meet  and  right  that 
there,  in  midstream,  they  should  consign  their  old  battle-flag 
to  the  past.  They  had  not  surrendered  it,  but  as  a  standard  it 
existed  for  those  eallant  hearts  no  more.  Woman's  loyal 


Meagre  Shanks  281 

hand  had  bestowed  it.  Coy  victory  had  caressed  its  folds 
mid  the  powder  pall  and  horror  of  ten  score  desperate  fields. 
And  now  it  floated  over  the  last  of  its  followers,  ere  the  waves 
should  close  over  it  forevermore.  With  bowed  heads,  they 
gathered  sadly  about " 

"Lay  it  down,  Shanks,  lay  it  down,"  Driscoll  pleaded.  He 
was  referring  again  to  the  pen  in  hand. 

"All  right,  Din,"  Boone  answered  hastily.  "Yes,  I  know,  we 
all  got  kind  of  weepy  too.  No  wonder  Colonel  Slayback  wrote 
some  verses.  Reckon  you  can  stand  just  one?  This  one? 

'And  that  group  of  Missouri's  valiant  throng, 
Who  had  fought  for  the  weak  against  the  strong — 
Who  had  charged  and  bled 
Where  Shelby  led, 

Were  the  last  who  held  above  the  wave 
The  glorious  flag  of  the  vanquished  brave, 
No  more  to  rise  from  its  watery  grave!' 

And,"  he  added  savagely,  "just  let  any  parlor  critic  smile  at 
the  sacred  feet  of  those  same  lines!" 

"Let  him  once!"  said  Driscoll.     His  eyes  were  moist. 

Mr.  Boone  faithfully  traversed  the  rest  of  the  way  with  the 
"Iron  Brigade,"  and  no  company  of  errant  knights,  perhaps, 
ever  had  such  a  junketing  as  those  same  lusty  troopers.  No 
sooner  did  they  set  foot  in  the  enchanted  land  of  roses  than  a 
damsel  in  distress,  the  Republica  Mexicana  herself,  came  to 
them  for  succor.  Or  more  literally,  a  dissident  governor, 
backed  by  the  authority  of  President  Juarez,  offered  Shelby 
military  control  of  the  three  northern  states  and  grants  in  the 
fabulously  rich  Sonora  mines,  if  he  would  hang  high  his  shield 
and  recruit  his  countrymen  in  the  republican  cause.  There 
is  little  doubt  that  General  Shelby  could  have  raised  an  army 
and  become  henceforth  a  power  in  Mexico,  for  Washington 
would  have  smiled  on  the  undertaking  and  all  Texas  would 
have  afforded  a  base  of  supplies.  But  the  Missourian's 
Round  Table  voted  it  down.  They  awaited  Maximilian's 


282  The  Missourian 

reply  which  Driscoll  was  to  bring.  Perhaps,  too,  they  would 
have  a  chance  to  wage  war  against  the  United  States  again,  and 
that  was  better  than  being  smiled  on. 

Henceforth  they  fought  the  forlorn  damsel  herself,  fought 
every  foot  of  the  way  through  desert  mesquite  thick  enough 
to  daunt  a  tarantula.  There  were  guerrillas,  robbers,  spies, 
deserters,  and  Indian  tribes.  It  was  one  eternal  ambush, 
incessantly  a  skirmish,  often  a  pitched  battle.  They  saved 
a  French  garrison.  They  rescued  a  real  maiden  by  a  night 
attack  on  an  hacienda  stronghold,  and  did  it  with  strictly  de 
rigueur  dash  and  chivalry.  Once  or  twice  they  were  even 
stung,  by  some  "langourous  dusky-eyed  scorpion  of  a  say- 
norita "  to  fight  among  themselves,  cavalryman's  code. 
Daniel  was  never  one  to  spoil  a  romance  by  mentioning  that 
a  tropical  maid  was  faced  like  a  waffle-iron,  though  more  than 
likely  she  was.  Finally,  as  a  last  stroke,  Fat  Jenny  promised 
to  shoot  Shelby  and  hang  the  rest. 

"You've  been  derogatory  about  this  lady  before,"  Driscoll 
interposed,  "and  I  want  to  know  who  she  is." 

"She  is  the  English  for  Jeanningros,  the  French  general  at 
Monterey,  who'd  heard  about  those  negotiations  with  the 
Republica.  But  Shelby  formed  in  battle  line,  to  storm  his 
old  city,  and  at  the  same  time  sent  word  explaining  that  he 
hadn't  accepted  any  offer  from  the  Republica.  So,  instead 
of  shooting  and  hanging,  Jenny  asked  us  around  for  supper. 
That's  where  I  left  'em." 

"What  for?" 

"W'y,"  said  Boone  in  surprise,  "to  see  if  you'd  gotten  here, 
and  to  take  back  Maximilian's  answer." 

"But  what's  the  use?  The  Trans-Mississippi  went  and 
surrendered." 

"Gra-cious,  but  you're  in  a  vicious  humor!  Now,  here's 
the  use.  Instead  of  fifty  thousand,  we're  only  one  thousand, 
I  know.  But  there  are  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  Americans 


Meagre  Shanks  283 

down  here  like  us,  and  all  of  'em  wanting  service.  There's 
that  colony  just  starting  at  Cordova  near  Vera  Cruz.  But 
they'd  fight,  if  there  was  an  American  to  lead  them,  and  more 
yet  'ud  come  from  the  States.  Quicker'n  that,  Old  Joe  will 
have  a  division." 

Driscoll  ruefully  shook  his  head.  "Maximilian  wants  us," 
he  said,  "if  we'll  give  up  our  arms  first." 

"If   we " 

"If  we  will  surrender,  Dan." 

Mr.  Boone's  jaw  fell.  The  phrase  that  would  measure  the 
depth  of  the  proposed  ignominy  would  not  come.  Finally, 
he  dug  from  his  pocket  a  bright  new  gold  coin,  twenty  pesos, 
and  contemplated  reflectively  the  side  that  bore  Maximilian's 
effigy. 

"I've  got  the  cub  repohter's  superstition,"  he  said  at  last 
"You  get  your  cards  printed,"  here  he  tapped  the  coin  signifi- 
cantly, "and  you're  sure  to  lose  your  job — still  we  might  of 
helped  him." 

There  was  nothing,  though,  for  Daniel  but  to  turn  back 
and  meet  the  Brigade.  Learning  Maximilian's  decision,  the 
Missourians  would  probably  join  the  Cordova  colony.  Boone 
reckoned  that  he  would.  He  discovered  that  he  was  tired  of 
fighting.  Perhaps  the  new  citizens  at  Cordova  would  want 
an  organ,  a  weekly  at  least;  and  already  his  nostrils  were 
sniffing  the  pungent,  fascinating  aroma  of  printer's  ink. 
Then  he  asked  Driscoll  what  he  thought  of  doing,  now  that  he 
was  free. 

"  Don't  know,"  came  the  reply  lonesomely.  "  Stir  around,  I 
guess.  There's  a  flying  column  leaving  this  week  to  capture 
Juarez.  Maybe  that'll  do  me." 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  BLACK  DECREE 

"  So  may  heaven's  grace  clear  whatso'er  of  foam 
Floats  turbid  on  the  conscience." — Dante, 

THAT  unleashed  hawk  which  was  the  flying  column  failed 
to  clutch  its  prey.  From  the  City  of  Mexico  across  the  far 
northwestern  desert  the  Chasseurs  and  cuirassiers  rode  their 
swift  Arabian  steeds,  and  into  the  town  of  Chihuahua  at  last. 
But  the  old  Indian  for  whom  they  came  was  not  there.  Benito 
Juarez  had  fled.  He  must  have  known.  Yet  how,  no  one 
might  conjecture.  It  was  as  though  some  watchful  Republican 
fairy  had  marked  the  sturdy,  squat  patriot  as  the  one  hope  of 
the  Empire's  overthrow,  and  did  not  propose  to  have  him 
taken.  Scouts,  spies,  the  entire  French  secret  service,  delved, 
gestured,  and  sweated.  But  they  laid  bare  next  to  nothing. 
At  the  Palacio  Municipal  a  number  of  functionaries  told  of  a 
peon  in  breech  clout,  a  wretch  coated  with  alkali  dust  till  the 
muscles  of  his  legs  looked  like  grayish  ropes,  who  had  emerged 
from  the  cacti  plain  ten  days  before  and  come  running  into 
Chihuahua.  The  peon  had  made  direct  for  the  Palacio,  where, 
in  some  way,  he  had  contrived  a  secret  word  with  Don  Benito ; 
and  that  very  day  Don  Benito  with  his  one  minister,  Lerdo, 
had  set  out  toward  the  north. 

Afterward  the  functionaries  had  questioned  the  messenger, 
but  he  knew  next  to  nothing.  A  senor  chaparro  had  sent  him, 
was  all  he  said.  It  was  a  ridiculous  anti-climax.  A  senor 
chaparro,  "El  Chaparrito,"  "Shorty,"  such  a  one  to  be  the 
omniscient  guardian  of  the  Republic!  But  for  all  that 

284 


The  Black  Decree  285 

"El  Chaparrito"  was  to  be  heard  of  again  and  many  times, 
and  always  as  an  enigma  to  both  sides  alike,  until  the  absurd 
word  became  freighted  on  the  lips  of  men  with  superstitious 
awe.  There  was  an  inscrutable,  long-fingered  providence  at 
work  in  the  blood-strife  of  the  nation.  The  warning  to  Juarez 
at  Chihuahua  was  its  first  manifestation. 

Their  quarry  had  escaped,  but  Driscoll  was  not  sorry.  More 
than  once  he  had  felt  a  vague  shame  for  the  unsportsmanlike 
chase  after  one  lone,  indomitable  old  man.  Driscoll  held  a 
commission,  which  Michel  Ney,  happily  recovering,  had  pro- 
cured for  him  from  the  marshal.  But  as  the  American's 
healthy  spirits,  like  cleansing  by  vigorous  blood,  swept  the 
gloom  from  his  mind,  he  began  to  wonder  at  the  craving  for 
bustle  and  forgetfulness  which  had  made  him  snatch  at  such  an 
offer.  The  corners  of  his  mouth  twisted  in  whimsical  self- 
scorn.  He,  one  of  your  drooping,  unrequited  lovers! 
" Shucks! "  that  is  what  he  thought.  And  he  persuaded  himself 
that  it  was  all  over.  Quite,  quite  persuaded  himself.  But 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  hoped  that  he  might  never  have  to  see 
her  again. 

It  was  not  until  October  of  the  same  year  that  Driscoll  saw 
actual  battle  in  his  new  service.  With  the  Fifth  Lancers  under 
Colonel  Mendez,  the  best  of  the  few  native  regiments  in  the 
field,  he  had  been  assisting  at  a  manner  of  pacification.  That 
is,  they  marched  from  town  to  town,  and  received  allegiance. 
Guerrillas  of  course  punished  the  towns  later,  but  Maximilian 
would  not  be  induced  to  organize  a  native  army,  and  thirty 
thousand  French  could  not  garrison  fifteen  thousand  leagues. 
They  could  only  promenade,  through  sand  storms,  through 
cacti.  Then  the  battle  took  place.  It  was  the  last  vestige  of 
Liberal  resistance  to  the  Empire.  A  few  hundred  men  near 
Uruapan  in  Michoacan  flaunted  their  defiance.  Driscoll 
noticed  an  expectant  and  wolfish  look  in  his  colonel's  eyes. 
Mendez  was  a  strikingly  handsome  and  gallant  Indian,  but 


286  The  Missourian 

his  expectancy  now  was  not  for  battle.  It  was  for  the  battle's 
sequel.  Michel  Ney  and  a  squad  of  Chasseurs  had  just 
brought  him  an  Imperial  packet  from  the  City,  and  the  packet 
contained  general  orders  very  much  to  his  Indian  taste. 

The  fight  was  a  rousing  one,  and  Driscoll  enjoyed  himself 
for  the  first  time  in  many  days.  His  Mexicans  behaved  as 
he  could  have  wished,  better  than  he  had  hoped.  At  the 
start  in  the  familiar  uproarious  hell,  he  missed  the  hard  set, 
exultant  faces  of  his  old  Jackson  county  troop,  and  seeing 
only  tawny  visages  through  the  smoke  and  hearing  only 
foreign  yells,  he  felt  a  queer  twinge  of  homesickness.  But  he 
was  at  once  ashamed,  for  the  humble  little  chocolate  centaurs 
whom  he  had  been  set  to  train  were  dying  about  him  with 
lethargic  cynicism,  just  as  they  were  bidden.  Wearing  a 
charm,  either  the  Virgin's  picture  in  a  tin  frame,  or  the  cross, 
they  might  have  worn  the  crescent."  They  were  as  effective 
as  Moslems.  They  were  ruthless  fatalists. 

Michel  Ney  also  spent  a  diverting  half-hour.  He  had 
lingered  for  the  fray.  Waving  a  broken  sabre  snapped  off 
at  the  hilt,  he  charged  with  Gallic  verve  and  got  himself  knocked 
under  his  kicking  and  wounded  horse,  and  pummeled  by 
Liberal  muskets  on  every  side.  Driscoll  saw,  and  straightened 
out  matters.  Handing  the  Frenchman  a  whole  sabre,  he  re- 
proved him  soberly,  as  a  carpenter  might  an  apprentice 
caught  using  a  plane  for  a  ripsaw. 

After  it  was  over,  the  living  of  the  enemy  were  prisoners. 
The  victors  marched  them  to  Uruapan  near  by,  because  it  was 
charged  that  at  this  place  two  of  th'e  captured  Liberals,  Generals 
Arteaga  and  Salazar,  had  lately  shot  two  Imperialists.  Here, 
in  their  turn,  they  were  promptly  executed. 

Driscoll  heard  the  volleys,  ran  to  the  spot,  and  saw  the  last 
horrid  spasms. 

"What— what " 

Ney  turned  on  him  a  sickened  look. 


The  Black  Decree  287 

"Don't  you  know,  it's  the  new  decree." 

"What  new  decree?  These  dead  men  were  prisoners  of 
war.  If  murderers,  they  weren't  tried." 

"It's  the  decree  I  brought  from  Maximilian,  the  decree  of 
general  amnesty." 

Driscoll  glared  fiercely  at  such  a  jest,  but  to  his  utter  amaze- 
ment Ney  was  quite  in  earnest. 

He  who  had  commanded  the  shooting  squad  stooped  over 
the  corpses,  a  smoking  pistol  in  his  hand.  Now  he  glanced 
up  at  Driscoll.  "Pues,  si  senores,"  he  said,  "of  amnesty, 
yes,"  and  chuckling,  he  indicated  the  bodies  with  his  pistol. 

''But  wait "  He  thought  he  saw  a  form  quiver,  one  he 

had  overlooked.  Remedying  this  with  a  belated  coup  de  grace 
through  the  brain,  he  shoved  back  his  white  gold-bordered 
sombrero  and  mopped  his  forehead  as  a  laborer  whose  labor 
is  done. 

"Under  which  general  amnesty,  caballeros,"  he  went  on 
merrily,  "you  have  just  witnessed  the  first  act.  My  loyalty 
to  the  Emperor  grows.  His  Majesty  has  a  sense  of  humor." 

It  was  Don  Tiburcio.  He  had  deserted  the  Contras  to 
waylay  the  rich  bullion  convoy  of  which  Rodrigo  Galan  had 
told  him.  But  the  convoy  never  came.  Rodrigo,  the  "sin 
vergiienza,"  had  not  levied  toll  at  all.  He  had  swallowed  it 
whole,  a  luscious  morsel  of  several  millions  in  silver  and  gold. 
The  coup  was  of  a  humor  the  less  appreciated  by  Don  Tiburcio 
because  he  had  figured  on  doing  the  very  same  thing  himself. 
At  present  he  was  chief  of  scouts  under  Mendez,  and  com- 
manded the  Exploradores,  audacious  barbarians  who  were 
invaluable  for  their  knowledge  of  the  country. 

From  Tiburcio  and  Ney  Driscoll  finally  gathered  the  meaning 
of  the  decree.  It  was  the  keynote  to  the  Imperialist  hopes. 
Its  cause  was  the  flight  of  Juarez  across  the  border.  Max- 
imilian was  surcharged  anew  with  enthusiasm.  Even  the 
United  States  must  now  recognize  his  empire,  he  believed. 


288  The  Missourian 

And  confounding  flurry  with  activity,  as  usual,  he  fervently 
proclaimed  the  courage  and  constancy  of  Don  Benito  Juarez, 
but  added  that  the  Republican  hegira  finally  and  definitely 
stamped  all  further  resistance  to  the  Empire  as  useless.  Then, 
august  and  Cajsar-like,  he  allowed  amnesty  for  those  who 
submitted  immediately;  he  prescribed  death  for  all  others. 
Rebels  taken  in  battle  were  not  even  to  have  trial.  Maximilian 
believed  that  ink,  thus  sagaciously  besmeared  by  a  statesman's 
fingers,  would  blot  out  further  revolution.  But  it  was  so 
fatuous,  so  stupidly  unnecessary!  The  court  martials,  or 
French  gardens  of  acclimatization,  as  the  dissidents  called 
them,  were  already  doing  the  work  of  the  decree.  The 
poet  prince  merely  lifted  the  odium  of  it  to  his  own  shoulders. 
His  amnesty  became  infamy,  and  was  called  the  Bando  Negro, 
a  nefast  Decree  to  blacken  his  gentleness  and  well-meaning 
for  all  time. 

Driscoll  left  his  informants,  and  walked  up  and  down,  up 
and  down,  alone.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  fill  the  cob  pipe 
between  his  teeth.  A  scowl  settled  between  his  eyes,  and  it 
deepened  and  grew  ugly.  The  desperado  was  forming  in  the 
man — desperado,  as  contrast  to  polite  conventions.  Desperado, 
as  primitive  man,  who  hews  straight,  cutting  whom  or  what 
he  might,  cutting  first  of  all  through  the  veneered  bark  of 
civilization.  For  this  reason,  in  this  sense,  he  might  be  termed 
outlaw.  And  walking  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  he  hewed 
till  he  had  laid  bare  the  core  of  the  matter.  And  he  saw  it 
naked,  without  the  polish.  Thereupon  he  knew  what  he  was 
going  to  do. 

He  saddled  Demijohn,  and  Demijohn  followed  at  his  shoul- 
der to  the  jefetura.  Here,  at  the  entrance,  under  the  brick- 
red  portales,  Driscoll  left  the  horse,  untied,  and  opened  the 
door  and  passed  within. 

The  jefetura,  or  prefecture,  was  at  present  the  headquarters 
of  the  command,  and  in  the  long  front  room  were  assembled  a 


The  Black  Decree  289 

number  of  officers,  including  Ney  and  Tiburcio,  besides  the 
jefe  of  the  place  and  several  town  magistrates,  all  chatting 
with  Colcnel  Mendez  about  the  recent  victory.  They  greeted 
the  American  cordially,  and  poured  out  tequila  for  him.  He 
had  done  as  much  as  any  to  win  the  fight.  Michel  laid  a  hand 
on  his  shoulder. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said  with  mock  formality,  "to-day,  when  you 
permitted  yourself  to  save  my  skin,  you  called  me  a  fool.  But 
I  would  have  you  observe,  monsieur,  that  only  my  patron 
divinity,  the  god  of  fools,  is  permitted  to  know  so  much." 

Driscoll  loosed  himself  from  the  affectionate  grip,  and 
turned  to  Mendez. 

"Colonel,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  get  out  of  this." 

"What?    Oh  come,  mi  capitan,  find  a  better  one!" 

"It's  not  a  joke,  sir.  Profiting  by  a  commission  that  does 
not  bind  me,  I  am  here  to  tell  you  good-bye." 

"Jean,  mon  ami!"  Ney  cried  in  protest. 

Don  Tiburcio  waited  with  keen  appreciation,  as  he  always 
did  when  the  unexpectedness  of  this  Gringo  was  unfolding. 
The  others  stared  agape  at  the  man  between  them  and  the 
door.  Mendez  saw  too  that  he  was  in  earnest,  and  he  began 
to  argue,  almost  to  entreat.  The  Mexican  leader  had  lost 
the  quality  of  mercy  in  civil  wars  that  had  touched  him  cruelly, 
that  had  exacted  many  near  to  him,  but  there  was  sincerity  hi 
the  man,  and  men  were  won  by  the  stirring  sound  of  his  voice. 

"You  would  retire  now,"  he  exclaimed,  "now,  when  every 
soul  here  may  look  for  promotion,  and  none  of  them  more  than 
you,  Senor  Dreescol?" 

But  he  did  not  stop  there.  He  conjured  up  a  tempting  vista 
of  long  and  honored  life  under  an  empire  that  was  now  supreme. 
Even  the  scum  of  rebellion  yet  left  on  the  calm  surface  was 
that  day  swept  away,  and  naught  remained  but  to  enjoy  the 
favors  of  his  grateful  Majesty. 

"Which  only  makes  it,"  said  Driscoll,  "a  good  time  to  quit. 


ago  The  Missourian 

I  should  mention,  too,  that  I  intend  to  join  the  Republic,  that 
is,"  he  added,  "if  there's  any  of  the  Republic  left." 

Don  Tiburcio  was  not  disappointed. 

Mendez  sprang  to  his  feet  and  his  voice  was  stentorian,  as 
when  he  rallied  his  men  by  the  magnet  of  fury  and  hatred. 

"It's  desertion!"  he  roared. 

"Or  simple  honesty,"  Driscoll  corrected  him.  "But  it 
doesn't  matter.  The  penalty  is  no  worse  for  a  deserter,  if 
you  catch  him." 

Mendez  curbed  his  rage.  He  did  not  wish  to  lose  this  man. 
That  is,  he  would  regret  deeply  having  to  kill  him. 

"Why  do  you  mean  to  change?"  he  demanded. 

"Because  I  can't  feel  right!  It's  like — somehow  it's  like 
being  an  accomplice  of  murderers." 

"Dios  mio,  I  suppose  Your  Mercy  and  his  tender  heart 
refers  to  the  Decree?" 

"Partly.  That  thing  is  a  blanket  warrant  of  death.  Just 
because  your  enemy  can't  fight  any  longer " 

"But  you  forget,  sefior,  the  mines  that  exploded  in  the  high- 
ways. You  forget  the  poisoned  springs,  the  ambuscades,  the 
massacres.  Would  they  not  shoot  prisoners  too,  your  new 
friends  ?  " 

"Si  sefior ,  as  you  and  others  may  some  day  experience 
personally." 

"Then,  mighty  judge,  condemn  them  also." 

"Don't  I?  But  I  can't  blame  them.  They  are  punishing 
crime." 

"But  not  of  murder,  as  we  did  to-day." 

"That  too,  for  that  was  murder  to-day.  But  I  was  thinking 
of  a  worse  crime.  I  was  thinking  of  theft,  sir." 

"Theft?    How  can  that  be  worse?" 

"Theft  of  their  country,  I  mean,  and  as  your  accomplice  I 
owe  restitution.  Leaving  after  a  victory  ain't  so  bad,  but  if 
I'd  known  that  I  was  fighting  for  that  Black  Decree,  I'd  of 


The  Black  Decree  291 

dropped  out  before  the  fight.  But  look  at  it  anyway  you  please. 
How  it  looks  be  damned!" 

"Sefior,  lay  down  your  pistols  and  sabre,  there,  on  that 
table,  because,  by  Heaven,  I  shall  stop  you!  But  if  you  are 
armed,  I — I  shall  have  to  shoot  you,  too." 

"Hang  it,  Mendez,  you're  a  good  fellow!  But — I  can't 
help  it." 

"Lay  them  down,  you  renegade!" 

Driscoll  removed  his  sabre  and  gravely  placed  it  on  the 
table. 

"The  guns  are  my  own,"  he  said.  "Dupin  had  them 
returned  to  me.  He  took  them.  Suppose  you  take  them, 
Colonel  Mendez!" 

He  was  in  the  doorway,  and  from  there  he  faced  them.  The 
day  was  hot,  and  Mendez  had  taken  off  his  belt  with  his  weap- 
ons. But  the  others  were  armed.  Yet  they  hesitated.  They 
were  brave  enough  for  death,  but  before  the  certainty  of  death 
for  at  least  one  among  them  and  the  uncertainty  of  which  one, 
they  paused.  Driscoll  had  not  touched  the  black  six-shooters 
under  his  ribs.  That  -would  have  snapped  the  psychological 
fetter.  As  he  expected,  Mendez  sprang  first.  This  put  an 
unarmed  man  between  himself  and  the  others.  In  the  instant 
he  wheeled,  was  in  the  saddle,  and  clattering  down  the  street. 

Back  in  the  room  Mendez  saw  his  blunder  and  made  way. 
Ney  passed  him  first,  reached  the  door,  aimed  and  fired.  But 
someone  behind  him  touched  his  arm,  and  the  ball  sped  high. 
Ney  turned,  and  saw  Tiburcio  filling  the  door  against  the 
others,  and  regarding  him  with  evil  challenge  in  his  eye. 

"Oh,  don't  think  that  I  hold  it  against  you,"  Ney  cried 
gratefully. 

Tiburcio  half  laughed. 

"A  man  who  don't  want  prisoners  shot  is  better  with  the 
enemy  than  dead,"  he  said. 

Tiburcio's  chuckle  was  prophetic.     The  enemy  invariably 


292  The  Missourian 

executed  Exploradores,  and  would  certainly  do  as  much  for 
Don  Tiburcio  if  they  caught  him. 

Ney  heard  the  hoof  beats,  already  far  away. 

"May  the  god  of  fools  look  after  him  too,"  he  murmured 
heavily. 

The  fugitive  swept  round  the  first  corner  of  the  street  and 
on  through  the  town.  None  thought  to  stop  him.  Soldiers 
and  townsmen  supposed  him  on  the  Empire's  urgent  business, 
and  when  they  knew  better,  there  was  no  longer  hope  for  their 
ponies  against  the  great  Missouri  buckskin,  now  a  diminishing 
dusty  speck  mid  cacti  and  maguey. 

"The  devil  of  it  is,"  Driscoll  muttered  ruefully,  "I  don't 
know  where  there's  anybody  to  desert  to!" 

However,  he  was  feeling  much  better. 


CHAPTER  III 

As  BETWEEN  WOMEN 

"A  laugh  is  worth  a  hundred  groans  in  any  market." — Lamb. 

JACQUELINE  had  wrought  close  to  success  during  that  May 
twilight  on  the  edge  of  the  Cuernavaca  pond.  She  had  won 
a  promise  of  abdication.  Yet  in  the  end  it  was  not  the  Emperor 
that  left  Mexico,  but  the  Empress.  And  Jacqueline  was  to 
accompany  her,  to  leave  despite  herself  the  scene  of  her  labors. 
Such  was  the  case  precisely,  and  it  all  came  to  pass  in  this 
wise. 

Maddened  by  the  distance  which  his  temptress  kept,  also 
goaded  to  it  by  the  sorry  state  of  his  empire,  Maximilian  thought 
only  of  abdication.  Napoleon  responded  to  Jacqueline's 
cipher  dispatch  with  orders  to  Bazaine.  But  Bazaine,  urged 
thereto  by  Empress  and  marechale,  ignored  the  orders,  and 
advanced  Maximilian  more  money.  And  Maximilian,  having 
no  longer  his  excuse  to  quit,  stayed  on  to  spend  the  money. 
Jacqueline  sighed,  and — began  all  over  again.  Consequently 
Bazaine,  hearing  once  more  from  Napoleon,  found  himself  a 
defaulter,  and  virtually  recalled.  Consequently,  Napoleon 
set  dates  for  evacuation.  Consequently  the  rebellion  sprang 
into  new  life,  and  the  Empire  lost  armies  and  cities,  and 
thousands  of  men  by  desertion.  But  the  darkest  cloud  was 
formed  by  one  hundred  thousand  Yankees  massed  along  the 
Rio  Grande.  Napoleon  took  heed.  He  ordered  that  the 
French  troops  should  leave  at  once,  unless  half  the  Mexican 
customs  were  turned  over  to  the  French  administrator.  This 

293 


294  The  Missourian 

was  during  the  summer  of  1866,  only  six  months  after  the  bright 
hopes  embodied  in  the  Black  Decree  of  general  amnesty. 
Utterly  appalled,  Maximilian  took  up  his  pen  again  to  sign 
his  abdication. 

But  there  was  Charlotte.  Even  yet  she  pettishly  clung  to 
her  crown.  The  Mexican  agents  in  Paris  had  availed  nothing 
with  Napoleon.  Bien,  she  would  herself  go  to  Paris.  She 
would  get  the  ultimatum  recalled,  and  Bazaine  as  well,  because 
Bazaine  no  longer  advanced  money.  The  imperial  favorites, 
among  them  the  sleek-jowled  padre  recommended  by  filoin, 
seconded  her  intention.  And  as  they  all  talked  so  well,  Max- 
imilian quaffed  of  hope.  With  a  spite  hardly  noble  though 
entirely  royal,  he  predicted  that  soon  the  marshal  would  find 
himself  in  a  sadder  fix  than  himself,  the  Emperor. 

Suddenly,  secretly,  a  little  after  midnight,  Charlotte  left 
the  capital.  Maximilian  bade  her  good-bye  with  a  solemn 
promise  to  rejoin  her  in  Europe  if  she  failed.  Three  days 
later  Dupin  and  his  Contra  Guerrillas  met  her  in  the  Tierra 
Caliente,  and  offered  to  join  her  French  cavalry  escort.  The 
Empress  took  his  presence  as  an  affront.  Of  late  small 
things  excited  her  to  a  feverish  agitation  which  she  was  unable 
to  control.  The  Tiger  bowed  over  his  saddle,  and  kept  his 
gray  hair  bared  to  a  torrential  downpour  while  her  carriage 
passed  on.  It  was  the  tropical  rainy  season.  The  clouds 
hung  low  around  the  mountain  base  and  truncated  the  more 
distant  peaks,  while  the  valley  below  was  a  bright  contrast 
in  wet,  tender  green.  The  wheels  sank  deep,  and  mired  in  the 
black,  soggy  earth.  Men  tugged  constantly  at  the  spokes, 
and  the  steaming  mules  reared  and  plunged  under  the  angry 
crack  of  whips. 

The  Tiger  of  the  Tropics  waited  as  carriage  after  carriage 
toiled  past  him  and  creaked  and  was  forced  on  its  way.  Behind 
the  dripping  windowpane  of  the  very  last  he  saw  a  face  he 
knew,  a  beautiful,  saddened  face,  puckered  just  now  by  some 


As  Between  "Women 


295 


immediate  ill-humor.  She  frowned  on  recognizing  the  French 
barbarian,  but  unlike  Charlotte,  she  did  not  jerk  down  the 
shutter.  Instead,  she  lowered  the  glass  by  the  length  of  her 
pretty  nose. 

"Is  it  dotage  already,  monsieur?    Then  put  on  your  hat!" 

"Name  of  a  name,  yet  another  petulant  grande  dame!" 
But  the  Frenchman  turned  his  horse  and  rode  beside  her  coach. 

"Did  Her  Majesty  pout,  then?"  inquired  the  lady  within. 

"Almost  as  superbly  as  Mademoiselle  la  Marquise." 

"Thank  you  well,  but  I  have  a  superb  reason  for  it." 

"Because  you  return  to  Paris,  surely  not?  Yet,  if  that  is 
the  reason,  you  need  not  quite  despair." 

"Why,  what — what  do  you  mean?" 

"Only  brigands,  mademoiselle.  When  everyone  is  looking 
for  abdication,  a  cortege  mysteriously  leaving  the  City  must 
be  the  Emperor  who  goes  back  to  Austria.  The  news  travels 
like  wildfire.  The  Indito  runners  go  as  fast  as  when  they 
brought  Moctezuma  fresh  fish  from  the  Gulf.  I  rather  think 
they  have  carried  the  news  to  an  old  friend  of  ours.  It's  my 
chance  to  catch  him." 

"Not  my  Fra  Diavolo — Rodrigo  Galan?" 

"None  other.  But  Rodrigo  is  stirred  by  more  than  patriot- 
ism these  days.  Upon  it  he  has  grafted  a  deep  wrong,  and  he 
swears  lofty  vengeance  by  a  little  ivory  cross  such  as  these 
Mexican  girls  wear.  The  conceited  cutthroat  imagines  there 
is  a  blood  feud  between  himself  and  His  Majesty.  So  if  he 
hears  that  Prince  Max  comes  this  way " 

"He  will  find  Charlotte  instead?  But  he  must  not  detain 
her." 

"Tonnerre!"  exclaimed  the  Cossack  chief.  "Why  not? 
She  goes  to  Europe  to  sustain  the  Empire,  while  we  French " 

"All  the  same,  let  her  go.  She  will  gain  nothing  there. 
Listen  to  me,  monsieur.  She  leaves  that  he  may  not  abdicate, 
while  if  I  stay,  she  fears  that " 


296  The  Missourian 

"He  will  abdicate?" 

"Your  wits,  mon  colonel,  are  entirely  satisfactory.  And  so 
she  invited  me  to  go  with  her,  and  as  first  lady  of  her  house- 
hold, I  could  not  refuse.  I  wonder,  now,  if  Fra  Diavolo  would 
deign  to  capture  just  me,  alone!" 

The  sharp  look  which  Dupin  gave  her  from  behind  the 
streams  tumbling  off  his  sombrero  was  the  sixth  of  a  half- 
dozen.  But  it  was  this  last  one  that  seemed  to  satisfy  him. 

"Put  up  the  window,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "you're  getting 
wet." 

Ten  minutes  later  Jacqueline  felt  the  coach  lurch  heavily 
and  sink  to  the  hub  on  one  side. 

"Go  on  with  your  nap,  Berthe,"  she  said  to  her  one  com- 
panion. "They'll  pull  us  out,  as  usual." 

The  customary  yelling  and  straining  began,  and  men  grunted 
as  they  heaved  against  an  axle.  After  a  long  seance  of  such 
effort  there  came  a  sharp  exclamation,  like  an  oath,  and  the 
confusion  fell  to  a  murmur  of  dismay.  Someone  jerked  open 
the  door,  and  Dupin's  grizzled  head  appeared. 

"Mademoiselle,  I  regret  to  have  to  announce  that  a  wheel 
is  dished  in." 

Jacqueline's  gray  eyes  regarded  him  quizzically.  The 
sardonic  old  face  spread  to  a  grin,  but  deftly  readjusted  itself 
to  the  requisite  despair. 

Not  a  carriage  except  the  wrecked  one  was  in  sight.  Only 
the  Tiger's  whelps,  by  the  hundred,  surrounded  her. 

"And  the  others?    Her  Majesty?" 

"The  others  did  the  sensible  thing.  They  know  that  you 
will  catch  up  with  them  when  they  themselves  are  mired. 
Her  Majesty,  being  ahead,  is  probably  still  in  ignorance  of  your 
accident." 

"But  the  wheel?" 

"If  mademoiselle  wishes  it  mended?" 

"Is  it  so  bad?" 


As  Between  Women  297 

Dupin  caught  her  expression.  "It  will  take  six  hours,"  he 
said  mercilessly. 

"Oh  dear!"  said  Jacqueline. 

"There's  a  settler's  cabin  a  mile  from  here.  If  you 
will  accept  my  horse,  and  Mademoiselle  Berthe  can  mount 
behind " 

"Poor  Berthe,"  sighed  Jacqueline.     But  she  nodded  eagerly. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  LACKING  COINCIDENCE 

"Achilles  absent  was  Achilles  still." — The  Iliad. 

COLONEL  DUPIN  helped  first  one  and  then  the  other  of  his 
charges  upon  the  same  horse  and  wrapped  them  about  in  the 
same  gaudy  serape  till  only  two  pair  of  pretty  eyes  peeped 
forth  at  the  rain.  The  Vera  Cruz  highway  clung  to  the  moun- 
tain side,  but  the  Contra  Guerrillas  took  a  venturesome  little 
bridle  path  which  dropped  abruptly  down  into  the  rich  valley 
of  a  thousand  or  more  feet  below.  Emerging  from  the  dense 
tropical  growth  of  the  highland,  they  beheld  a  vast  emerald 
checkerboard  of  cultivation,  field  after  field  of  sugar  cane, 
and  set  in  each  bright  square  a  little  house  of  bamboo 
with  a  roof  of  red  piping.  After  the  dreary  black  gorges 
behind  them,  the  light  of  the  sun  seemed  boxed  in  here 
under  a  leaden  cover  of  cloud.  Coming  suddenly  out  of  the 
chill  and  mist,  the  two  girls  felt  the  very  rain  gratefully 
warm  and  the  fragrant  smells  of  the  wet  earth  a  thing 
of  comfort.  As  the  beauty  and  the  cheer  of  it  subtly  glad- 
dened her  mood,  Jacqueline  thought  that  here  at  any 
rate  was  an  adequate  mise-en-scene  for  whatever  tremors 
might  befall. 

There  was  one  circumstance  that  already  seemed  a  portent, 
and  got  on  a  person's  nerves  like  the  stillness  of  nature  just 
before  a  Kansas  cyclone.  This  was  the  curious  absence  of 
all  human  life.  Except  for  the  grimly  expectant  troop  around 
her,  and  the  clanking  of  metal  as  the  Contras  rode,  she  had  no 

298 


The  Lacking  Coincidence  299 

token  of  a  fellow  creature.  The  first  of  the  plantations  was 
deserted,  and  likewise  the  next.  But  the  house  doors  were 
open.  Nothing  showed  preparation  for  departure.  The 
riddle  was  uncanny.  At  the  third  Jacqueline  stated  that  she 
would  go  no  farther.  She  hated  to  tramp  down  a  man's 
field  when  the  man  himself  was  not  about  to  express  an  opinion, 
and  the  ruthless  swath  made  by  her  escort  through  the  cane 
gave  her  shame.  Besides,  it  was  too  much  like  wading,  the 
way  her  skirts  brushed  the  long  leaves  and  knocked  off  glisten- 
ing drops  by  myriads. 

The  third  cabin  was  abandoned  too,  but  there  were  induce- 
ments within  for  any  houseless  creature.  A  hammock  was 
hanging  from  corner  to  corner  in  the  front  room,  probably 
to  thwart  the  fauna  of  tropical  stingers,  and  there  was  that 
comfort  unfamiliar  to  French  women,  a  rocking  chair,  before 
a  most  inviting  fireplace,  itself  a  luxury  rare  in  Mexico.  The 
two  girls  removed  their  cloaks,  and  settled  themselves  to  dry 
their  shoes  before  a  roaring  fire  which  the  men  lighted  for 
them.  Then  the  Cossacks,  including  their  colonel,  left  on 
some  stealthy  business  without,  and  Jacqueline  and  Berthe 
were  alone. 

Jacqueline  tried  the  rocker,  found  it  good,  and  smoothed 
her  skirts  over  her  knees  to  the  warmth  of  the  blaze.  "We've 
only  to  yawn  at  the  flies,  eh,  ma  ch^rie?"  said  she. 

"Not  a  thing  else,  madame,"  came  a  cheery  voice  from  the 
hammock. 

Jacqueline  was  at  once  suspicious.  "You  absurd  little 
mouse,"  she  cried,  "don't  I  understand  that  gaiety  of  yours! 
And  all  the  while  you  are  really  trembling  in  fear  of  terrible 
bandits.  For  months  now  you  grieve  because  you  imagine 
that  I — well,  that  I  am  sad.  But  you'll  not  make  me  hilarious, 
you  won't,  Berthe,  as  long  as  it's  'madame.'  Child,  child, 
will  you  not  let  me  have  my  friend  in  you,  I  who  have  none, 
nor  a  mother  or  sister!  There  now,  if  I'm  not  to  be — ah — 


3oo  The  Missourian 

pensive — remember  there's  no  'madame'  between  thee  and 
me,  dear!" 

The  Bretonne's  gentle  eyes  filled  suddenly.  Jacqueline 
had  before  sought  to  change  their  relations,  ever  since  Berthe's 
part  in  Driscoll's  rescue  from  execution,  but  she  had  always 
tried  to  bring  it  about  by  playful  bantering.  Now,  however, 
Berthe  was  given  to  see  the  utter  loneliness  of  an  orphaned 
girl  in  one  who  for  all  the  rest  of  the  world  was  the  disdainfully 
independent  little  aristocrat,  who  had  met  the  proffered  intimacy 
of  the  French  empress  with  a  sneer,  who  was  the  cold  princess 
when  among  princesses  of  the  Blood.  The  loyal  child  of 
simple  Breton  folk  sprang  impulsively  to  the  arm  of  the  rocker, 
and  was  herself  clasped  no  less  impulsively. 

"But  there,"  said  Jacqueline,  laughing  rather  brokenly, 
"we're  forgetting  the  flies." 

A  belt  over  the  fireplace  caught  her  eye,  and  she  unexpectedly 
discovered  that  her  breath  had  quickened.  She  stared  fasci- 
nated at  the  letters  on  the  buckle.  "C.  S.  A.,"  she  murmured. 
Then  her  startled  gaze  roved  hurriedly  over  the  walls.  It 
became  even  frightened  before  a  faded  gray  cape-coat  of  the 
Confederate  cavalry  and  a  battered  white  gauntlet  sticking 
from  the  pocket.  Involuntarily,  trembling  foolishly,  she  looked 
to  see  if  there  might  not  be  an  old  cob  pipe  also.  There  was 
not,  but  the  other  familiar  objects  made  her  imagination  leap 
fearfully  to  what  might  be.  Both  hope  and  dread  will  always 
override  common  sense,  and  convoy  imagination  perforce. 
If  he  did  live  here — if  they  should  meet!  Could  such  a  coinci- 
dence happen,  could  it,  outside  the  neat  ordering  of  a  book 
or  play? 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  began  investigating.  She  went 
awesomely  as  one  would  tiptoe  over  a  haunted  house.  In  the 
next  room  she  came  upon  what  was  an  odd  treasure  trove  for 
an  isolated  bamboo  cabin  tucked  far  away  under  the  Tropic 
of  Cancer.  It  was  a  printer's  shop,  after  a  fashion.  The 


The  Lacking  Coincidence  301 

case  was  a  block  of  stone,  in  whose  surface  the  little  compart- 
ments had  been  chiseled.  They  were  sparsely  accoutred 
with  type  and  plentifully  with  cigar  ashes.  As  for  a  press, 
there  was  none.  But  a  form  had  been  made  up  on  a  slab  of 
marble,  and  near  by  were  a  tiny  hillock  of  ink,  a  roller  and 
a  mallet.  The  mysterious  printer  could  at  least  take  proofs. 
There  was  one  now  on  a  file.  Jacqueline  pulled  it  off,  and 
contemplated  a  miniature  American  newspaper,  of  one  sheet, 
printed  on  one  side  only,  and  no  larger  than  a  magazine  cover. 
At  the  top  she  read  the  legend,  in  German  caps  :  The 
Cordova  Colonist — Weekly  Independent." 

"Is  that  a  pun?"  she  wondered. 

But  now  at  least  she  could  identify  the  ghostly  company  of 
the  valley,  though  not  its  scribe.  That  word  "Cordova" 
gave  the  clue.  A  year  ago  one  thousand  hardy  men  had  ridden 
into  the  capital  from  the  north.  Their  leader  was  a  fiery, 
black-whiskered  little  man  with  a  plume  in  his  hat  and  the 
buff  sash  of  a  brigadier  general  around  his  waist.  They 
were  the  Missourians,  defamed  as  "Shelby's  horse  thieves 
and  judges  of  whiskey,"  honored  as  "The  Old  Brigade,"  and 
so  feared  and  respected  under  any  name  that  the  City  fairly 
buzzed  and  stared  goggle-eyed.  But  Maximilian  again  refused 
their  offers  to  enlist  under  his  standard,  and  they  could  only 
disband.  Some  took  ship  to  hunt  for  Kidd's  treasure  in  the 
Pacific,  others  went  to  Japan  and  the  Sandwich  Islands,  and 
a  number  joined  a  congenial  regiment  of  veterans,  the  Zouaves. 
But  the  majority,  she  remembered  now,  had  been  settlers, 
persuaded  thereto  by  their  countryman,  Commodore  Maury, 
who  was  Imperial  Commissioner  of  Immigration.  Maury  had 
secured  a  grant  of  land  near  the  town  of  Cordova,  within  a 
hundred  miles  of  Vera  Cruz.  There  were  one-half  million 
acres  of  rich  land,  suitable  for  the  three  Big  C's  of  southern 
countries,  cotton,  cane  and  coffee.  But  until  now  the  strip 
had  not  been  cultivated.  The  Church  had  held  it  fallow. 


302  The  Missourian 

Then  the  Republic  had  nationalized  it;  and  the  Empire 
was  selling  it  to  the  Americans  at  $1.25  an  acre.  The  hopeful 
settlement  bore  the  name  of  Carlota. 

So  the  cape-coat  and  those  other  things  were  explained. 
She  was  denied  her  coincidence.  But  as  there  was  so  much 
of  a  plot  forward  anyway,  she  ought  to  have  been  satisfied — as 
an  artist,  she  ought.  She  craved  an  ecstasy  of  peril  or  of  terror, 
not  as  the  former  dilettante  of  emotions,  but  as  the  lotus  eater, 
who  exacts  forgetfulness. 

Meantime  she  read  editorials,  and  got  interested.  The 
Colonist  never  advanced  beyond  the  proof-sheet  stage,  but  as 
such  it  circulated  with  avidity  over  the  valley.  Eloquence 
flowed  serene  under  mashed  type  and  variegated  fonts.  The 
editor  persisted  in  viewing  the  Empire  and  Republic  as  political 
parties,  and  the  horrors  of  civil  warfare  as  incidents  of  an 
electoral  campaign.  He  had  congenial  scope  for  his  unpartisan 
and  independent  pen,  advising  with  owl-like  sagacity  or  abusing 
with  peppery  virulence,  and  either,  for  either  side,  with  blithe 
impartiality.  At  times,  though,  the  strained  analogy  between 
ballots  and  bullets  evidently  cracked,  and  rather  floored  the 
editor.  For  instance,  in  a  pot-pourri  of  long  primer  and 
pica  with  a  dash  of  Old  English  lower-case  was  the  fol- 
lowing: 

As  we  went  to  press  last  week  we  paused  to  entertain  a  torchlight  procession 
of  the  Young  Imperialists'  Flambeau  (Hub,  which  was  collecting  a  campaign 
contribution  in  the  semblance  of  our  alfalfa  stack.  The  spectacle  of  citizens 
taking  an  active  part  in  the  issues  before  their  country  ne'er  fails  to  rouse  in  us 
a  spirit  of  collaboration,  so  tohat  could  we  do  but  join  heartily  in  the  celebration, 
so  that  a  most  excellent  time  was  had.  Later  our  editorial  staff,  a  score  who  in 
our  canefields  teach  the  tender  sprouts  how  to  shoot,  knowing  the  same  so  well 
themselves,  gently  laid  to  rest  a  score  and  one  Cossacks,  past  members  of  the 
Rambeau  Club,  who  had  lingered  behind  for  the  reason  that  they  were  past. 
But,  we  ask,  ad  quod  damnum  f — i.  e.,  isn't  it  as  futile  as  cauterizing  a  wooden 
leg  ?  How  much  longer,  O  Jove,  must  we  let  our  public-opinion  moulds  cool 
off  while  we  chase  enthusiastic  young  patriots  away  from  our  alfalfa  !  !  !  .  .  . 
In  conclusion,  with  a  cool  brow,  we  are  constrained  to  say  that  if  the  party  in 
ppwer  cannot  discourage  the  depredations  above  cited,  we  shall  have  to  fortify 
Ourselves  to  the  contemplation  of  a  change  of  administration. 


The  Lacking  Coincidence  303 

"Why,"  cried  Jacqueline,  "what  an  animal  disputans  it  is!" 
She  perceived  an  ink  bottle,  and  exclaimed,  "Ah,  more  milk 
from  the  black  cow!"  Taking  up  a  wad  of  copy  paper,  on 
which  a  future  editorial  was  already  begun,  she  read,  and 
quickly  her  amusement  changed  to  a  livelier  interest. 

"Rumor  goes,"  she  read  under  the  caption,  Ardentia  Verba, 
"that  Father  Augustine,  political  manager  for  the  adminis- 
tration, vice  filoin,  is  soon  to  leave  for  Europe.  He  goes  to 
have  a  pourparler  with  the  Pope.  He  will  concede  every- 
thing, since  the  Empire  no  longer  hopes  to  win  over  the  moder- 
ate Mexicans.  But  the  obstinate  though  Holy  Father  will 
negotiate  a  concordat  on  one  basis  only,  and  that  is  the 
return  to  the  Mexican  church  of  all  nationalized  church 
lands. 

"Men  of  the  colony,  attention  now!  We  each  own  some- 
thing like  three  hundred  acres  apiece  of  these  lands.  And 
we  are  paying  for  them,  we  are  cultivating  them,  and  we 
have  to  defend  them  against  both  guerrillas  and  contra- 
guerrillas.  And  now  they  are  to  be  confiscated!  Our  new 
homes  are  to  be  taken  from  us!!  Alas,  we  who  are  peaceful 
settlers,  to  think  that  we  were  Trojans  on  a  time!!!  Fellow 
citizens,  with  us  it's  a  severe  case  of  e  pluribus  unum.  Oh, 
for  a  leader!  But  our  incomparable  chief  of  yore  will  not 
stir.  Yet  there  was  one,  gallant  cavalier  of  the  South,  peerless 
captain,  just  the  dauntless  heart  for  any  forlorn  hope  under 
the  starry  vault  of  heaven,  if  he  were  only  here!  If  he,  John 
D.  Driscoll,  were  only " 

The  matter  stopped  abruptly.  More  than  that,  by  force  of 
habit  the  scribe  had  ringed  the  figures  "30"  underneath. 
They  meant  "finis."  The  editor  had  known,  then,  that  he 
would  not  return  to  end  his  harangue. 

"A  flea  bite,"  mused  Jacqueline,  "would  interrupt  the 
penning  of  an  Alexandrian  line.  Now,  I  wonder  who  or  what 
the  flea  could  have  been,  and  what " 


304  The  Missourian 

But  there,  she  would  ask  herself  no  question  concerning  the 
editorially  mentioned  "John  D.  Driscoll." 

It  was  mid  afternoon  when  Colonel  Dupin,  like  a  shaggy, 
dripping  bear,  returned  to  the  house  and  begged  leave  to  dry 
himself.  Standing  before  the  fire,  he  reloaded  his  holster 
pistols.  They  were  tremendous,  elegant  utensils  of  French 
make,  with  a  nine-chambered  cylinder,  and  a  second  barrel 
underneath  that  carried  a  rifle  ball.  Where  no  prisoners 
were  taken  on  either  side,  the  owner  of  such  a  weapon  usually 
reserved  the  murderous  slug  for  himself,  and  the  loading  of 
that  lower  barrel  became  a  sort  of  ghastly  rite.  Jacqueline 
shuddered  as  she  watched  him  fix  on  the  cap. 

"How  do  you  explain  your  desertion  of  Her  Majesty?" 
she  asked.  "Our  Fra  Diavolo  should  thank  me  for  drawing 
you  off." 

The  Tiger  adjusted  the  double  hammer  so  that  it  would 
play  on  the  cylinder  first.  A  rumbling  chuckle  came  from  the 
depths  of  his  throat. 

"I  should  be  honored  with  mademoiselle's  approval,"  he 
said,  "for  at  court  mademoiselle  is  a  guileful  warrior.  The 
casualties  there  may  not  be  so  sanguinary,  but  the  strategic 
principle  is  the  same.  Know,  then,  that  Rodrigo  Galan 
employs  a  spy  whom  I  own,  body  and  soul.  By  now  Rodrigo 
has  learned  from  this  spy  that  the  Imperial  coach  broke  down, 
and  that  to-night  Her  Majesty  rests — here.  So  you  see  that 
she  is  not  likely  to  be  attacked " 

"But  I  see  that  we  are,  par  bleu!" 

"Of  course,"  and  the  Tiger  unctuously  rubbed  his  hands 
in  the  blaze.  "It's  my  chance  to  trap  him.  He  has  only 
three  hundred  men." 

"And  you,  monsieur?" 

"Our  mutual  spy  has  told  him  that  I  have  less  than  two 
hundred  men.  The  brigand  knows  that  I  was  forced  to  leave 
a  garrison  at  Tampico." 


The  Lacking  Coincidence  305 

"But  how  many  have  you,  really?" 

Dupin  motioned  her  to  the  window.  But  she  saw  not  a 
man,  not  a  musket.  She  saw  only  the  wet  fields  of  cane,  and 
the  black  mist-shrouded  mountains  beyond. 

"Just  the  same,"  the  Frenchman  assured  her  pleasantly, 
"they  are  there,  full  five  hundred  of  my  little  tribe.  Does 
mademoiselle  approve?" 

"It  looks  like  the  curtain  on  cFra  Diavolo,'"  she  replied, 
ihuddering. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  MISSOURIANS 

"  Men  sententious  of  speech  and  quick  of  pistol  practice." 

— Major  John  N.  Edwards. 

AN  hour  before  nightfall  the  guerrillas  attacked.  Jacqueline 
was  standing  at  the  window,  when  she  heard  a  jubilant  din  and 
saw  a  tawny  troop  charging  through  the  fields  toward  the  house. 
They  yelled  as  they  came,  waving  machetes  and  carbines. 
It  was  the  usual  theatrical  dash  of  Mexicans.  Like  savages, 
they  thought  first  to  frighten  their  adversaries. 

"Won't  you  come  and  see,  Berthe  ?    It's  like  a  hippodrome." 

She  felt  sorry  for  them.  The  dulcet  cane  grew  thorns. 
Under  the  leaves  the  black  soil  was  become  clay  red  with 
leather  jackets.  The  Cossacks  had  fixed  sword-bayonets 
to  their  muskets,  and  were  waiting  on  their  knees. 

Stung  by  the  hidden  barbs,  the  first  horses  reared  in  air, 
pawing  and  screeching  frantically.  Many  sank  down  again, 
and  they  were  limp  as  the  life  ebbed.  Others  crashed  back- 
ward, their  riders  underneath,  and  those  behind  plunged 
over  them,  unable  to  stop.  Soon  it  was  a  fearful  jumble; 
men  and  beasts,  hoofs  and  steel,  curses  and  shrill  neighing. 
Then  the  firing  began,  a  woof  of  fine  red  threads  through  the 
warp  of  pale-green  reeds.  The  guerrillas  yet  fought.  The 
myth  of  their  own  heavier  numbers  kept  them  from  panic. 
Ragged  fellows  with  feet  bare  in  the  stirrups  leaned  over  to 
slash  at  heads  between  the  tasselled  stalks.  They  squirmed 
like  snakes  from  under  kicking  horses,  and  fainting,  got  a 
carbine  to  the  shoulder  at  aim,  and  someway,  pulled  the  trigger. 

306 


The  Missourians  307 

Then  they  were  taken  in  the  rear.  One-half  of  the  Contra 
forces,  mounted,  had  waited  under  the  sapling  growth  of  the 
nearest  foothill.  Now  they  sprang  from  cover,  bloodthirsty 
whelps  trailing  the  Tiger.  The  guerrillas  could  not  turn 
back.  To  retreat  they  must  cleave  the  way  in  front,  and  they 
did,  by  sheer  desperation.  Falling  in  the  mesh  at  every  step, 
they  at  last  gained  the  large  open  space  around  the  cabin. 

Then  it  was  that  Jacqueline  got  a  near  view  of  Don  Rodrigo. 
He  was  superbly  mounted,  and  his  long  body  made  a  heroic 
figure  on  the  curveting  charger.  He  frowned,  and  his  mus- 
tachios  bristled  fiercely,  and  his  shouts  of  command  were 
heavily  ominous.  The  wind  turned  the  folds  of  his  black 
cloak.  It  was  faced  with  scarlet  silk,  and  the  charro  elegance 
beneath  was  black  and  resplendent.  All  told,  he  was  a  very 
outburst  of  glitter;  breeches,  jacket,  sombrero,  saddle,  stirrups, 
and  bridle;  not  of  silver,  but  of  gold.  Good  carbines  for  his 
vagabond  Inditos,  magnificence  for  himself,  these  had  come 
from  that  fabulous  theft  of  the  bullion  convoy.  And  he  had 
arrayed  himself  this  rainy  day  to  dazzle  a  princess  of  the 
Blood.  So  now  he  wielded  his  sword  with  a  conscious  flourish, 
glancing  toward  the  window  to  see  if  he  were  seen. 

"The  poseur,  never  out  of  his  role,"  murmured  his  audience 
there.  "How  will  he  enjoy  running,  I  wonder?" 

But  to  her  astonishment  he  did  not  run,  though  Dupin 
was  cutting  closer  and  closer  through  tangled  bodies,  eager  to 
grapple  with  his  old-time  slippery  foe.  Don  Rodrigo  raised 
in  his  saddle,  and  looked  anxiously  in  all  directions.  Suddenly 
his  dark  face  lighted,  and  wheeling  round,  he  called  to  his  men, 
and  in  his  turn  strove  as  furiously  to  reach  the  Tiger  as  the 
Tiger  had  striven  to  reach  him.  Jacqueline  could  not  now  tell 
which  side  to  feel  sorry  for.  But  she  exulted  in  the  thrill  of 
it,  even  as  she  wrung  her  hands  at  sight  of  the  red  agony. 

Then  something  happened,  which  even  the  Tiger,  who  knew 
his  warfare  so  well,  had  never  known ;  which  got  into  even  his 


308  The  Missourian 

dried  and  toughened  marrow.  It  was  the  Rebel  yell.  It 
rose  over  a  sudden  thunderous  rush  of  hoof  beats.  And  next, 
as  a  puff  of  air,  a  herd  of  horsemen,  a  wild  mud-spattering 
streak,  surged  past  the  house.  On  across  the  open,  and 
straight  upon  the  fray,  they  merged  everywhere,  and  made 
bigger  and  livelier  the  blotch  of  mad  swarming.  Some  wore 
slouch  hats,  others  straw  sombreros,  and  all  were  ruddily 
burned.  They  fought  with  revolvers,  and  often  one  would 
pause  between  shots  to  spit  tobacco.  They  brought  to  the 
battle  one  thing  above  all  else,  and  that  was  vim,  vim  un- 
bounded, vim  that  simply  had  to  have  vent. 

Jacqueline  caught  her  breath.  What  race  of  men  were 
these?  Exalted,  quivering,  she  watched  them  doing  as 
workmen  what  fell  to  their  hands,  yet  ever  with  that 
whirlwind  of  vim. 

"The  Missourians — of  course!"  she  cried. 

Through  powder  smoke  and  misty  rain  the  figure  of  one 
horseman  slowly  grew  familiar.  She  caught  fleeting  glimpses 
of  him,  as  he  darted  into  a  melee,  as  he  spurred  round  to  find 
a  hotter  field.  Suddenly  her  eyes  widened,  and  she  pressed 
a  hand  hard  against  her  breast. 

"The  coincidence! "  she  gasped,  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 
"It  is  the  coincidence!" 

Her  nose  flattened  against  the  wet  pane.  She  remembered 
how  that  general  of  the  Missourians  had  told  Charlotte  about 
this  man,  for  the  Empress  had  asked.  And  the  general  had 
related  how  the  troop  had  dubbed  him  the  Storm  Centre. 

"And  no  wonder!"  she  breathed.  "Mon  Dieu,  how  he 
enjoys  it! — But,  oh — he  will  be  killed — oh!" 

Yet  nothing  of  the  kind  happened.  When  she  uncovered 
her  eyes,  his  assailants  were  in  flight.  Every  Cossack 
survivor  was  in  flight.  The  Storm  Centre  wheeled 
and  confronted  Don  Rodrigo,  who  raised  his  sombrero 
effusively. 


The  Missourians  309 

"Rebellion  makes  strange  comrades,"  thought  Jacqueline. 
"But  no,  my — the — chevalier — does  not  take  his  hand." 

Indeed  Driscoll  wa?  looking  the  guerrilla  over  with  little 
favor.  "So,"  he  exclaimed,  "it  was  you  I  was  to  help  here!" 

"And  what  better  patriot,  senor " 

"  Never  mind  that.  Why  didn't  you  wait  till  dark  to  attack  ? 
Weren't  those  the  orders,  or — that  is,  the  suggestion?" 

"But  whose  suggestion?  Perhaps,  senor,  you  know  who 
El  Chaparrito  is?" 

"Haven't  the  least  idea,  nor  anyone  else.  But  it's  certain, 
Rod,  that  this  is  your  first  experience  of  Shorty.  Another 
time,  and  you'll  have  sense  enough  to  take  his  hints.  Now 
then,  where's  the  emperor  we  were  to  catch?" 

Fra  Diavolo's  smile  was  Satanic.  "Your  Chaparrito  was 
either  mistaken  about  the  Emperor,  or,"  and  he  glanced 
toward  the  window,  "or  he  deceived  you  into  helping  me  cap- 
ture a  beautiful  young  woman." 

"How?  What " 

"I  mean  that  His  Cautious  Majesty  did  not  come,  however 
much  El  Chaparrito  seems  to  want  him.  But — "  and  Rod- 
rigo's  tone  lowered  heavily,  "but  his  August  Spouse  came  in- 
stead. She  is  in  that  cabin  now.  It  is  well,  senor,  for  ven- 
geance in  kind  is  just.  It  is  righteous,  it  is  biblical.  Since 
fate  has  thrown " 

"E-a-s-y!  Eas-y,  boy.  Of  course,  if  we've  gone  and  netted 
an  empress,  we'll  ask  'em  to  please  take  her  back.  This  ain't 
a  woman's  game." 

"Give  up  a  queen's  ransom?" 

Driscoll  nodded  cheerfully. 

"I  believe,  caballero,"  said  the  brigand  with  awful  dignity, 
"that  I  command  here." 

Driscoll  looked  at  his  Missourians  returning  from  the  chase. 
"Well,"  he  laughed,  "you  might  try  it  on,  and  see  how  they 
take  it." 


310  The  Missourian 

Behind  Jacqueline  the  door  opened.  She  almost  jumped. 
Of  the  hundreds  likely  to  enter  there,  her  startled  fancy  pic- 
tured only  one.  But  the  new  comer  was  a  stranger. 

"Oh-ho,  come  a- visiting,  eh?" 

The  voice  was  cordial,  robust,  Western. 

"Missour-i/"  she  exclaimed  involuntarily. 

"  Yes'm,  Cooper  county." 

She  turned,  won  to  friendliness,  and  beheld  a  man  who,  to 
use  her  mental  ejaculation,  was  "of  a  leanness!" 

"Monsieur "  and  she  paused. 

"Boone,  ma'am.  Daniel,  your  most  obedient  servant. 
If  I'd  known — Sho',  we  might  of  had  things  spruced  up  a  bit. 
Are  you  the  queen,  maybe?" 

The  lady's  laugh  rang  as  clear  as  a  bell.  Taken  aback, 
Boone  sought  to  correct  his  mistake.  He  saw  that  Berthe  was 
seated  in  the  hammock.  She,  then,  must  be  the  Empress. 

"I'm  downright  sorry  we  went  and  captured  Your  Majesty," 
he  began. 

"Her  Imperial  Highness  does  not  understand  English," 
Jacqueline  explained. 

Then  to  her  surprise  the  man  proceeded  in  French.  He 
was  evidently  greatly  disturbed  because  Missouri  hospitality 
did  not  harmonize  with  war.  "It  was  a  blunder,"  he  apolo- 
gized earnestly,  "come  of  our  deciding  just  this  morning  to 
make  you  Europeans  vacate  our  continent.  But  don't  let  that 
worry  Your  Majesty.  Here,  under  my  roof,  the  decision 
doesn't  hold,  at  all!" 

Berthe  lifted  her  head  quickly.  It  was  her  second  promo- 
tion in  the  social  scale  that  day.  She  had  trembled  when  the 
door  opened,  for  she  knew  that  Rodrigo's  side  had  triumphed. 
But  this  tall  stranger  brought  relief  to  one's  nerves,  and  some- 
how she  had  watched  him  trustingly.  He  was  of  the  same 
race  as  Monsieur  Driscoll,  to  whom  also  she  had  once  turned 
instinctively  for  help.  But  when  the  tremendous  young  fellow 


The  Missourians  311 

addressed  her  with  reverence  due  a  queen,  she  felt  only  the 
respectful  admiration  due  a  pretty  young  woman.  It  unex- 
pectedly awakened  in  her  the  knowledge  that  she  was  a  pretty 
young  woman;  and  with  a  winsomeness  that  amazed  and  de- 
lighted Jacqueline,  to  say  nothing  of  its  effect  on  Daniel,  she 
gently  put  him  right  as  to  her  identity. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  Boone  protested  stoutly,  "you  ought  to 
be  one!'7 

The  door  opened  again.  It  struck  the  wall  with  an  insolent 
bang,  and  in  strode  Don  Rodrigo.  Jacqueline  noted  who  it 
was  and  indifferently  seated  herself  in  the  rocking  chair,  with 
her  back  toward  him.  The  Mexican  advanced  to  the  centre 
of  the  room.  The  brief  twilight  had  fallen,  and  the  place  was 
in  half  light  except  for  the  blazing  logs.  He  stopped  rigid  and 
flung  his  scarlet-lined  cloak  back  over  his  shoulder. 

"Where,"  he  demanded  in  the  huge  tones  of  a  victorious 
general,  "is  the  tyrant's  empress?" 

No  one  volunteered  as  to  where  the  tyrant's  empress  might 
be.  The  toe  of  Jacqueline's  boot  was  indolently  busy  with  the 
embers  on  the  hearth.  The  heads  of  both  girls  were  in  shadow. 

Rodrigo's  furrowed  brow  creased  more  deeply.  "Which 
of  you  is  she  ?  "  The  heavy  syllables  dropped  one  by  one.  He 
stepped  tentatively  toward  Berthe.  So  did  Boone. 

"Stand  aside,  senor!" 

"Can't,  dear  brigand,"  said  Daniel. 

Then  Berthe  spoke.  "Please,  messieurs,"  she  began,  "Her 
Majesty  is  not " 

"  It's  only  a  maidservant,"  Rodrigo  exclaimed  in  chagrin. 

"Don't  make  any  difference,"  said  Boone,  "she's  come 
a- visiting." 

"If,  Seigneur  Brigand,"  spoke  a  clear  voice,  "you  had  not 
interrupted  Mademoiselle  Berthe,  you  would  stand  informed 
by  now  that  Her  Majesty  is  not  here.  Will  you  deign  to  close 
the  door?" 


3i2  The  Missourian 

Rodrigo  knew  well  those  bell-like  tones.  Forgetting  the 
question  of  an  empress,  he  drew  nearer  to  the  lady  of  the 
rocker.  She  gave  him  no  heed,  but  her  profile  against  the  red 
glow  was  very  soft  and  beautiful.  His  chagrin  vanished. 
Here  was  a  more  ravishing  triumph. 

"A  vengeance  in  kind,"  he  muttered,  wetting  his  lips, 
"Ha,  he  took  nobody's  wife,  as  to  that;  and  his  wife  may  go. 
But  in  the  matter  of  sweethearts — ah ! " 

Bending,  he  laid  a  hand  caressingly  on  her  neck,  against  the 
tendrils. 

At  the  touch  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  Boone  leaped  for- 
ward with  fist  drawn  back.  But  both  stopped.  Her  face 
changed  from  fury  to  pallor.  Boone's  expressed  approval. 

The  room  had  filled  through  the  open  door  with  men  and 
torches,  but  the  first  man  among  them  had  come  as  far  as 
Rodrigo's  shoulder  even  as  the  insult  occurred.  From  behind, 
the  man's  arm  had  straightened  under  Rodrigo's  chin,  and 
twisting  to  a  lever,  was  gradually  forcing  back  his  head.  Rod- 
rigo groped  for  a  knife,  but  half  way  to  his  waist  the  fingers 
clutched  vainly  in  a  sharp  spasm,  and  all  involuntarily  flew  up 
and  gripped  at  the  vise  under  his  chin.  Yet  another  ounce  of 
pressure,  and  it  seemed  his  neck  must  snap  like  a  dry  twig. 
Suddenly  his  spine  bent  limp.  Muscles  relaxed.  The  whole 
body  capitulated.  Then  the  man  behind  stooped  a  little,  and 
Rodrigo  began  to  rise.  Slowly  at  first,  and  next,  as  from  a 
catapult,  the  brigand  shot  backward  over  the  man's  shoulder 
and  struck  his  length  on  the  floor. 

"No,  not  that,  boys,"  said  the  man.  "Don't  kick  him. 
Laugh  at  him,  it  hurts  more." 

He  spoke  more  particularly  to  one  "Tall  Mose"  Bledsoe  of 
Pike  county  who  was  purple  with  indignation  that  a  "saddle- 
colored  Greaser  should  dare  lay  hands  on  a  white  woman." 

But  there  were  also  "Rube"  Marmaduke  of  Platte,  "Mac" 
Crittenden  of  Nodaway,  the  "Doc"  of  Benton,  "Cal"  Grinders 


The  Missourians  313 

from  the  Ozarks,  Clay  of  Carroll,  and  Carroll  of  Clay,  besides 
a  ruddy  sprinkling  from  the  county  of  Jackson.  Among  the 
latter  was  "Old  Brothers  and  Sisters,"  a  plump  little  young 
man  with  cherubic  eyes  behind  round  brass  spectacles.  Clem 
Douglas  had  been  ordained  in  the  M.  E.  Church  (South),  and 
became  thereupon  the  Rev.  Mr.  Douglas.  "Old  Brothers  and 
Sisters"  was  a  theological  degree  of  later  acquirement,  lovingly 
bestowed  by  the  Iron  Brigade.  But  in  his  more  recent  gospel 
of  pistol  practice,  Clem  Douglas  was  not  a  backslider.  He 
was  simply  all  things  Southern  to  all  men.  Like  the  others 
In  the  cabin,  his  hat  was  off,  his  muddy  boots  scraped;  and  like 
the  others,  he  was  not  unaware  of  the  two  girls. 

"Rather  showery  out,"  he  observed  genially,  wiping  the 
mist  off  his  glasses,  and  imagining  weather  a  livelier  topic  than 
battle. 

Jacqueline  did  not  hear.  Her  eyes  were  still  on  the 
man  who  had  disdained  to  strike  Rodrigo  from  behind, 
who  had  flung  him  away  instead,  as  one  would  a  dog. 
She  stood  motionless,  and  her  face  was  very  white.  She 
saw  that  he  wore  loose  leather  "chaps,"  a  woolen  shirt,  and  an 
old  coat,  with  only  stained  shoulder  straps,  green  braid  on  dark 
blue,  to  indicate  a  uniform.  His  wet  black  hair  was  curly. 
His  brown  eyes  flashed  whimsical  contempt  on  the  resplendent 
guerrilla  at  his  feet.  He  was  the  Coincidence;  he  was  the 
Storm  Centre.  He  turned,  expecting  to  see  the  Empress,  and 
he  met  her  eyes.  His  own  darkened  with  a  new  anger,  and 
involuntarily,  he  swung  round,  himself  to  kick  the  Mexican 
who  had  insulted  her.  But  a  flood  of  memory  swept  over  him, 
the  memory  of  what  he  had  seen  at  Cuernavaca.  Not  for  her 
could  he  touch  a  fallen  man. 

"Take  him  into  the  back  room,  two  of  you." 

Red,  red  to  the  neck,  he  was  turning  to  follow,  when  he  saw 
Berthe. 

"Miss  Burt!"  he  exclaimed. 


314  The  Missourian 

Heartily  he  shook  hands  with  her.  "It's  my  first  chance,  you 
know,  to  mention  what  you  did  for  me  over  a  year  ago.  But 
I  sure  appreciate  having  my  life  saved,  you  know  that.  There 
now,  you're  not  to  worry  over  this  present  mess.  We'll  have 
it  straightened  out,  just  in  no  time." 

He  stammered  as  he  spoke,  and  when  he  turned  and  left 
the  room,  his  bearing  was  constrained.  Jacqueline's  eyes 
followed  him  until  the  inner  door  closed  behind  him.  Then, 
with  a  half  shrug,  she  sat  down  and  pensively  resumed  the 
building  of  fiery  mounds  on  the  hearth. 


CHAPTER  VI 
IF  A  Kiss  WERE  ALL 

"A  man,  a  woman,  a  passion — what  else  matters?" — Sardou. 

"TALL  Mose"  Bledsoe  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Douglas  conveyed 
Don  Rodrigo  to  the  back  room,  and  here  Driscoll  and  Boone 
joined  them.  They  did  not  disarm  the  Mexican.  It  did  not 
occur  to  them  that  any  man  would  risk  drawing  a  weapon  in 
such  company.  And  as  to  Fra  Diavolo  they  surmised  correctly. 
He  sulked  a  little  at  first,  for  there  were  sore  tendons  that  ached. 
But  in  the  end  he  grew  reasonable,  and  his  white  teeth  gleamed 
acquiescence  to  all  that  the  senores  were  pleased  to  say.  He 
agreed  to  bivouac  his  men  apart  from  the  Missourians  and  go 
his  own  way  at  daybreak.  The  Contras  were  routed.  The 
Tiger  had  barely  escaped.  There  was  no  further  need  of 
combined  forces.  Indeed,  Don  Rodrigo  feared  a  night  attack 
so  little  that  he  meant  to  reward  his  men  with  many  copitas 
of  aguardiente.  Might  he  send  a  barrel  over  to  his  esteemed 
allies  ? 

Mose  Bledsoe  turned  a  pleading  look  on  the  parson,  and  to 
his  surprise  the  Rev.  Mr.  Douglas  beamed  tolerant  benevolence. 
"Why  yes,  my  friend,"  he  himself  said  to  Don  Rodrigo,  "good 
liquor  is  always  acceptable,  especially  when  soldiers  must 
sleep  on  the  wet  ground." 

The  brigand  was  then  allowed  to  depart,  and  Old  Brothers 
and  Sisters  explained.  It  was  best  to  let  Rodrigo  send  the 
brandy,  for  then  one  knew  what  to  expect.  Otherwise  the 
Christian  brother  and  rascal  would  hatch  up  some  other  piov, 
and  any  other  plot  might  take  them  off  their  guard. 


316  The  Missourian 

When  an  hour  later,  Rodrigo  did  in  fact  attack  the  pre- 
sumably somnolent  Americans,  more  happened  than  either  he 
or  they  expected.  A  third  was  also  waiting  to  strike  for  the  sake 
of  a  woman.  He  was  Dupin,  who  wanted  nothing  better  than 
the  allies  at  each  other's  throat.  Crouching  warily  near, 
the  Tiger  sprang  at  both  of  them.  In  the  rain  and  the  black 
night,  the  three-cornered  fight  raged  like  firecrackers  under  a 
tin  bucket.  The  guerrillas,  repulsed  by  the  Americans,  fled 
upon  the  Contras,  whereat  the  Americans  swept  them  both  back 
indiscriminately.  Instead  of  a  lady,  the  Tiger  carried  off  Don 
Rodrigo,  and  was  quite  glad  to  carry  himself  off.  But  Boone, 
scouting  near,  reported  that  Rodrigo  was  held  a  prisoner  instead 
of  being  executed  at  once.  This  meant  something.  It  meant 
beyond  any  doubt  that  the  Mexican  and  the  Frenchman 
would  combine,  Rodrigo  for  his  life,  Dupin  to  rescue  Jacque- 
line. 

The  Missourians  held  council  in  Daniel's  sanctum.  To 
restore  the  captives  to  Dupin  had  been  Driscoll's  intention 
from  the  first.  But  now  it  was  a  question  of  trading  them 
against  Rodrigo.  Dupin  must  know  the  American  offer 
before  he  and  Rodrigo  should  attack.  Driscoll  proposed  for 
himself  alone  the  errand  to  the  Tiger's  camp.  Rising  to  his 
feet,  he  left  his  protesting  friends  without  a  word  further. 
But  he  had  to  pass  through  the  front  room  first,  to  get  the  cape 
coat  hanging  there.  It  was,  in  fact,  his  own.  The  two  girls 
were  seated  before  the  fire,  Jacqueline  still  in  re  very,  Berthe 
nervously  agitated  from  the  late  racket  of  battle.  Daniel 
Boone  had  laid  before  them  a  ranchman's  supper  with 
tropical  garnishing,  but  it  was  untouched.  Driscoll  nodded, 
crossed  the  room,  took  the  coat  from  its  nail,  and  started 
for  the  outer  door  as  he  drew  it  on. 

"Snubbing — an  acquaintance,"  spoke  an  impersonal  little 
voice,  "is  cheap." 

He  stopped,  waited. 


If  a  Kiss  Were  All  317 

"Of  a  gentleman,  I  reckon  you'd  say,"  he  interrupted 
uneasily.  "Maybe  not,  but  a  ruffian's  got  his  instincts 
too.  When  he's  afraid  of  hurting  someone,  he  hides 
himself." 

"I  was  mistaken,"  she  said  gravely,  with  that  quaintest 
inflection  of  the  English  he  had  ever  heard,  "yes,  mistaken. 
He  mais — but  it  is  just  that  the  complaint.  You  hurt  more 
by  not  speaking." 

"But  there's  nothing  to  say,"  he  faltered.  "I'm  just  going 
to  Old  Tige's — to  Dupin's  camp,  and  get  him  to  come  here 
for  you. " 

"Monsieur,  monsieur,  you  fight  for  your  captives  only — 
only  to  give  them  up  ?  " 

"That's  not  the  question.  You  can  overtake  the  Empress 
yet.  Dupin  will " 

"But  it  is  not  that  I  want  to  overtake  empresses  at  all. 
I — Berthe,  would  you  mind  carrying  back  these  supper 
things? — I,"  she  continued,  when  they  were  alone,  "have 
no  wish  to  go  back  to  Paris.  I  shall  return  to  the  City." 

Again  the  liaison  with  Maximilian,  he  thought  bitterly. 
And  Charlotte  away!  It  was  infamous.  However,  he  had 
no  right  to  be  concerned. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "then  Dupin  can  take  you  to  the  City, 
or  wherever  you  wish." 

"Ma  foi,  what  trouble  to  be  rid  of  your  prisoners,  monsieur, 
and  after  two  battles  too!" 

"That's  got  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

She  meant,  though,  to  have  him  confess  that  she  had  had  a 
great  deal  to  do  with  it.  She  was  taken  with  the  self-cruel 
fancy  to  lay  bare  and  contemplate  his  love  for  her,  that  she 
might  feel  more  poignantly  the  happiness  she  had  lost.  But 
he  abruptly  turned  again  to  leave,  and  all  else  was  forgotten  in 
terror. 

"You  go  to  that  Tiger!"  she  cried.     "Do  you  not  know 


318  The  Missourian 

that "  She  darted  between  him  and  the  door — "that  he 

recognizes  no  rules  of  war?  He  will  shoot  you,  he  will,  he 
will!" 

Driscoll  laughed. 

"Oh,  I'll  be  safe  enough  all  right,  thank  you.  Dupin  holds 
Rodrigo,  we  hold  you.  So  it's  simply  an  exchange  of  prisoners. 
And  he'll  not  do  anything  to  me,  for  fear  of  what  might  happen 
to  you  here.  You're  not  a  hostage,  sure  not,  but  as  long  as  he 
thinks  so,  I'll  profit  by  it." 

"You  are  right,"  she  admitted,  yet  not  heeding  his  anxiety 
to  pass.  "Dupin  will  not  even  detain  you.  He  will  judge 
you  Missou-riens  by  himself.  So,  voila,  he  frees  Diavolo. 
He  comes  for  me.  And — and  you,  monsieur?" 

"Me?  W'y,  I'll  wait  for  the  boys  at  Dupin's  camp,  after 
he  takes  charge  here.  Then  we'll  march." 

"And — you  do  not  come  back?" 

"No  need  to.  Now  will  you  please  get  away  from  that 
door?" 

"Not  coming  back!"  she  repeated.  Could  the  Coincidence 
be  for  naught  after  all?  Could  not  real  life  be  for  once  as 
complacent  as  art?  He  was  going,  and  when,  where,  in  the 
wide  world,  in  all  time,  might  they  ever  meet  again  ?  And  he 
was  going,  like  that!  Except  for  her,  he  would  not  even  have 
spoken. 

But — if  he  were  the  man  to  hold  her,  despite  herself  ?  If  he 
were  primal  man  of  primal  nature,  the  demigod  raptor  who 
seizes  his  mate  ?  Yes,  she  would  forgive  him — if  only  he  were 
that  man.  If,  as  such,  he  would  but  hold  her  from  her  duty, 

from  her  sacrifice,  despite  herself,  if — if — if And  so  her 

daring  fancy  raced,  raced  as  desire  and  hope  to  outrun  sorrow. 
And  why  not  ?  She  could  look  him  in  the  eye  with  that  honesty 
which  pertains  to  woman,  for  she  knew  that  the  shame  he 
thought  of  her  was  only  in  the  evidence  of  what  he  had  seen,  of 
what  he  had  heard  the  world  say,  and  not — no,  not  in  fact. 


If  a  Kiss  Were  All  319 

And  for  the  kindness  of  that  fact  she  thanked  Providence. 
Then,  daring  to  the  end,  her  insane  hope  for  happiness  gave  her 
to  remember  that  there  was  a  clergyman  among  these  Amer- 
icans, and  to  see  in  that  the  ordering  of  fate. 

But  Reality  was  still  there,  grim  and  greater  than  either 
Providence  or  Art.  The  man  was  waiting  for  her  to  step 
aside,  and  when  she  did,  he  would  pass  through  the  door  and 
out  of  her  life.  She  gazed,  as  for  the  last  time,  on  his  stalwart 
shoulders,  on  his  splendid  head,  the  head  of  a  young  Greek, 
on  his  flushed  face,  his  mouth,  and  those  obstinate  little  waves 
of  his  hair.  How  good  he  was  to  look  upon — for  her,  that  is ! 
No,  no,  she  could  not  let  him  go. 

And  she  tempted  him.  With  all  her  woman's  beauty  she 
tempted  him.  If  beauty  were  aught,  it  must  win  her  now  what 
she  held  dear.  Afterward,  when  she  should  tell  him  why,  he 
would  forgive  her  the  unmaidenly  strategy.  She  had  noted 
with  a  passionate  joy  that  the  lines  of  his  face  were  tightly 
drawn,  were  even  haggard,  that  his  breath  came  short;  in  a 
word,  that  he  suffered.  It  told  her  that  his  gruff  man- 
ner was  not  indifference,  but  the  rugged  front  of  self- 
control.  What  a  will  the  man  had !  Knowing  that  strength, 
she  must  have  been  an  odd  young  woman  indeed  not  to  try 
to  break  it. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  lowering  her  head  and  shaking  it  in 
demure  resignation,  "no,  I  suppose  a  captive  has  not  the  littlest 
thing  to  say  of  her  disposal?  But  if  the  poor  child  has  curi- 
osity, monsieur?  If,  for  the  instant,  she  wonders  why  a 
monsieur  fights  for  her,  and  then  why  he  hazards  his  life  to  be 
rid  of  her?"  With  which  she  raised  her  eyes  inquiringly.  It 
was  disconcerting. 

"We'll  not  talk  of  that  any  more,"  he  grumbled.  "Are  you 
going  to  let  me  pass?" 

Frail  creature  between  him  and  the  door,  how  easy  to  remove 
her!  But  he  feared  the  warmth  of  her  hand,  should  he  but 


320  The  Missourian 

touch  it,  or  the  faint  odor  from  her  hair,  should  a  stray  lock  no 
more  than  brush  his  cheek. 

"Even  a  captive  will  wonder  why  she  is  so  little  prized," 
observed  the  perverse  maid. 

She  considered  with  glee  that  the  window  was  too  small, 
and  with  yet  keener  delight  that  his  wits  for  strategy  had  left 
him.  He  did  not  once  think  of  exit  by  the  inner  door. 

"Why  do  you  keep  me?"  he  demanded. 

His  tone  was  harsh  command,  and  for  the  moment  it  fright- 
ened her.  She  all  but  gave  way,  when  she  perceived  that  the 
menacing  growl  was  really  a  plea.  The  poor  fellow  was 
at  bay.  She  very  nearly  laughed.  Then,  too,  he  would  not 
meet  her  eye  again. 

"Oh,  am  I  keeping  you?"  she  exclaimed  in  innocent  dis- 
may. 

It  provoked  him  to  what  she  wanted.  He  came  toward  her 
angrily,  while  she  stepped  back  against  the  door  and  spread  her 
arms  across  it.  Her  pose  was  a  dare;  and  the  trouble  was,  he 
had  to  look.  He  had  to  see  the  girlish,  the  wonderful  line  of 
head  and  shoulder,  the  color  flooding  cheek  and  neck,  and 
most  dangerous  of  all,  the  challenging  gray  eyes.  His  teeth 
snapped  to,  and  his  hand  closed  over  her  wrist.  He  pulled, 
she  yielded.  He  felt  her  other  hand  laid  on  his.  The  touch 
seemed  to  sear  his  flesh. 

"You  must  not  go,"  she  whispered,  "must  not!" 

He  drew  her  farther  from  the  door,  toward  himself. 

"Must  not!"  she  repeated.  He  could  feel  the  breath  of  her 
whisper. 

"Don't— Jack-leen!" 

She  barely  heard  the  words,  but  she  knew  the  agony  there. 
And  he,  as  he  gripped  her  wrist,  sensed  the  throbbing  that 
passed  through  her  whole  body.  For  pity,  he  was  powerless 
to  thrust  aside  a  lass  who  pitied  him. 

"It  is  that  common,  yes.     It  is  not  the  instinct  of " 


If  a  Kiss  Were  All  321 

Yet,  all  the  while,  like  another  Brunhilde,  she  was  praying 
in  her  heart  that  she  had  not  taunted  him  in  vain.  A  very 
eerie  Valkyrie,  she  had  taunted  him  to  be  the  stronger, 
stronger  than  his  will,  stronger  than  herself,  to  strive  with 
her,  to  master  her.  And  now  she  saw  a  fury  of  love  and 
hate  aroused  in  him,  a  fury  against  herself  for  making  him 
love  her  more  than  his  great  will  could  bear.  In  her  lust  for 
seeing  this  anger  of  his,  she  forgot  her  mission  absolutely, 
forgot  why  she  had  come  to  Mexico,  forgot  all  but  the 
prayer  in  her  heart. 

Nothing  was  left  her  but  to  learn  the  answer,  and  this  she 
did,  by  tugging  firmly,  coyly,  to  free  her  wrist.  The  answer 
was  rapture ;  his  grip  had  tightened.  She  pulled  harder,  and 
felt  herself  being  drawn  toward  him.  Yes,  yes,  her  triumph 
was  a  fact.  Slowly  an  arm  of  iron,  a  tremulous,  masterful 
vandal,  circled  her  waist. 

She  pushed  at  him  with  her  fists,  and  panting,  tried  to  fight 
him  off,  however  the  blood  stung  in  her  veins  and  coursed  hot 
as  in  his.  The  matter  had  gone  far  enough.  It  was  time 
for  explanations,  for  an  adjustment.  But  he  did  not  seem 
to  think  so.  He  was  relentless.  Barbarian  Siegfried  with 
the  warrior  virgin  was  not  more  so.  The  tendons  in  that  arm 
of  his  suddenly  went  rigid,  and  crushed  her  body  against  him. 
It  was  then  that  a  sudden  horror  took  her,  and  she  struggled 
like  a  tigress.  She  gasped  out  a  cry  for  help,  but  the  scream 
had  no  volume.  Before  she  could  try  again,  his  hand 
covered  her  mouth. 

And  then,  and  then — oh,  the  words  he  was  whispering! 
Even  as  he  smothered  her  shriek,  she  heard  them. 

"Well — we'll  just  have  in  Clem  Douglas.  You've  seen 
Clem,  little  girl?  He's  our  parson." 

His  life  long,  Driscoll  had  never  dreamed  of  heaven  as  he 
saw  it  then  in  her  eyes.  Never,  his  whole  life  long,  as  she 
raised  those  eyes  to  his.  And  the  sweet  relaxing  of  herself,  the 


322  The  Missourian 

trustful  pillowing  of  her  head  on  his  breast,  the  soulful  content 
as  she  softly  breathed  there,  instead  of  that  wild  panting  of  a 
moment  before!  Blinded  to  the  world,  he  fervently  thanked 
God  that  he  had  been  made. 

He  touched  her  white  brow  lovingly,  and  gently  tilted  back 
her  chin.  Again  her  eyes  lifted,  confidingly.  His  head  bent. 
She  waited.  His  lips  drew  nearer  to  hers,  very  slowly.  He 
was  held  in  a  deep  reverence,  in  an  awe  of  something  sacred. 
It  was  a  rite  of  adoration  before  a  shrine.  And  she,  seeing 
that  look  in  his  eyes,  wanted  him  to  know  that  the  shrine  was 
truly  as  pure  as  in  his  oblivion  to  the  world  he  for  the  moment 
believed.  For  later  memory  would  come  to  him,  and  that  she 
could  not  bear.  He  must  know  now,  before  their  lips  met. 
Yet  a  good  woman  may  not  brazenly  avow  that  rumor  and 
evidence  speak  what  is  false.  But  for  all  that  he  still  must 
know,  in  some  way.  With  a  playful  gesture  she  intercepted 
his  lips  against  the  soft  palm  of  her  hand,  her  eyes  the  while 
holding  his  in  their  communion  of  soul.  And  thus  she  spoke, 
prettily,  saucily,  and  blushing  the  while, 

"And  are  you  so  sure,  sir,  that  you  are  the  first  ?" 
She  had  looked  for  protestation,  and  she  would  have  answered. 
And  he  would  have  believed.  He  must  have  believed.  But  in- 
stead the  spell  of  faith  broke  sharply.  Poisoned  memory  rushed 
in  before  it  could  be  belied.  She  could  see  the  tragedy  of  it  in 
his  changed  look,  in  his  ashen  face,  cold  and  gray.  He  thought 
her  question  a  gloating  over  his  weakness,  and  it  revolted  him. 
He  was,  then,  but  a  caprice  for  her.  He  remembered  that  after 
all  he  had  only  happened  by,  and  that  she  was  returning  to 
Maximilian.  But  still  she  was  hardly  less  tempting.  He 
had  a  moment  of  cruel  conflict  with  himself,  which  left  him 
with  a  sullen  rage  against  the  princelet  in  Mexico,  against  the 
order  of  princelets,  that  thus  fell  a  deathly  pall  between  an 
honest  man  and  a  true  love  kiss.  Yet,  she  was  there  in  his 
arms,  dear  and  fearfully  clinging  and — no  less  tempting. 


If  a  Kiss  Were  All  323 

"Take  this  woman  to  my  mother?"  the  question  rose. 

As  one  might  close  the  eyes  of  his  dead  wife,  he  loosed  the 
arms  about  his  neck,  and  let  them  fall  at  her  side.  Once  free, 
he  leaped  to  the  door,  flung  it  open,  and  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  CROP  OF  COLONELS 

"And  thus  they  led  a  quiet  life 
During  their  princely  raine." 

— Ballad  of  King  Cophetua  and  the  Beggar-Maid. 

SOME  years  after  the  events  recorded  here,  there  appeared 
in  the  Boonville  Javelin  (post-bellum  and  revived)  a  serial  of 
reminiscences,  which,  behind  an  opalescent  gossamer  of 
romance,  pictured  the  Missourians  and  the  chivalrous  role 
they  played  around  that  forlornly  chastened  and  be-chased 
damsel,  la  Republica  Mexicana. 

Quite  aside  from  the  prodigious  deeds  set  forth  therein,  the 
journalistic  epic  is  of  itself  naively  prodigious,  as  anyone  know- 
ing Mr.  Boone  with  pen  in  hand  will  at  once  suspect.  All 
the  little  Trojan  band — call  them  Gascons  if  you  will,  but  own 
that  if  they  boasted  they  were  ever  keen  to  substantiate  the 
bluff — all  of  them,  then,  strove  and  blazed  away  invariably  as 
heroes  and  were  just  as  peerless  as  could  be.  You  wouldn't 
look  for  anything  else  from  Mr.  Boone.  He  must,  however, 
be  credited  with  one  peculiarity,  that  he  never  hinted  at  him- 
self as  one  of  the  glorious  company.  Daniel  knew  his  news- 
paper ethics.  He  knew  that  the  newspaper  man  is  not  the 
story,  however  they  may  regard  it  in  France,  for  instance, 
where  the  reporter  is  ever  the  bright  particular  cynosure  of 
any  interview  that  bears  his  signature. 

A  few  strokes  of  the  Meagre  Shanks  brush  in  the  way  of 
excerpts  from  his  narrative,  with  plenty  of  extenuating  dots  in 
between,  should  make  an  impression,  even  though  impression- 
istic, and  serve  perhaps  as  a  sketch  of  what  befell  after  Din 

324 


A  Crop  of  Colonels  325 

Driscoll  had  bearded  the  Tiger,  freed  Don  Rodrigo,  and  sur- 
rendered his  own  two  captives.  To  begin: 

A  retreat  was  had  [Daniel  always  got  under  way  slowly,  as 
though  fore-resolved  not  to  stampede.]  Echo  demands, 
"Retreat?— The  Iron  Brigade  in  retreat?"  'Twas  true. 
Rallied  once  again,  but  under  another  flag  than  the  Bars,  the 
Missourians  rode  all  that  dank,  wet  night  lest  they  meet  and 
have  to  fight  their  new  friends,  the  guerrillas  under  Rodrigo 
Galan.  It  was  a  weird  predicament.  Two  days  before,  they 
were  peaceful  settlers  in  the  land — omne  solum  forti  patria — 
their  blood-flecked  swords  as  ploughshares  fleshed  in  earth's 
warm  bosom.  .  .  .  But  tyrannical  confiscation  of  the 
soil  they  tilled  loomed  foreboding.  .  .  .  Pestered  nigh 
unto  forceful  phrases  with  shooing  robbers  of  both  sides  out  of 
their  melon  patches,  and  fired  at  last  by  the  sentiment  that  it 
behooved  them  to  sally  forth  and  regulate  things  them- 
selves. .  .  .  They  only  lacked  a  Cincinnatus.  Their 
old  general  would  not  lead  them.  Wearing  his  bright  chaplet 
of  renown,  Joe  Shelby  now  drove  mules,  a  captain  over  long 
wagon  trains.  .  .  . 

Then  gallant  Din  Driscoll  appeared  among  them,  the  dry- 
humored,  reckless  Jack  Driscoll  of  other  days,  attired  now  in 
the  brave,  dashing  regimentals  of  the  Republic  [!]  From  out 
the  wilds  of  distant  Michoacan  he  came  with  the  long  gallop 
that  never  would  tire,  and  pausing  at  cabin  after  cabin  in  the 
Colony's  broad  acres,  summoned  his  old  comrades  to  arms  .  .  . 
to  arms  against  the  invader.  .  .  .  Who,  now,  will  argue 
bucolic  content?  Those  lusty  young  planters  smelled  the 
battle  from  afar.  What  now  were  waving  tassels  to  the  glory 
of  deeds? — a  cuspide  corona — to  a  wreath  of  powder-burned 
laurel  ?  That  very  day  the  Iron  Brigade  rallied  again,  gathered 
once  again  at  the  oft  remembered  bugle's  full,  resonant  blare. 

Fighting  came  sooner  than  the  Missourians  hoped.  Even 
as  they  started  for  Michoacan,  a  ragged  Indito,  whose  village 


326  The  Missourian 

had  been  razed  by  the  Cossacks,  met  the  command  and  asked 
for  the  Senor  Coronel  Gringo.  Driscoll  heard  what  he  had  to 
tell,  and  was  greatly  concerned,  though  the  others  laughed  at 
first  and  scoffed.  For  it  seemed  that  the  Indito  did  not  know 
who  sent  him,  except  that  it  was  a  senor  chaparrito,  a  short 
little  senor.  "  Then  you  must  be  a  Shorter  Yet  ?  "  said  Driscoll. 
"Well,  what  do  you  bring?"  The  Indito  produced  from  his 
ragged  shirt  a  bit  of  parchment,  whereon  Colonel  Driscoll  was 
urged  to  join  with  his  new  recruits  in  an  attack  on  Maximilian's 
escort,  for  Maximilian  was  on  his  way  to  Vera  Cruz.  The 
parchment  was  signed,  "  El  Chaparrito." 

"Shorty!  That  word  means  'Shorty',"  the  troopers  guf- 
fawed. But  Driscoll  showed  them  another  handwriting  at  the 
bottom.  The  parchment  had  been  countersigned  in  blank, 
thus:  "Benito  Juarez,  Libertad  y  Reforma."  The  Missourians 
were  respectful  after  that.  Many  thought  that  the  mysterious 
guardian  angel  of  the  Republic's  battles  must  be  the  Presidente 
himself,  though  the  Presidente  was  thousands  of  miles  away. 

After  the  victory  won  against  Dupin's  Contra  Guerrillas 
[so  the  chronicle  goes  on],  the  Missourians  found  their  ally 
to  be  none  other  than  that  picturesque  buccaneer  of  the 
Sierras,  Don  Rodrigo,  wild  as  a  prairie  wolf,  handsome  as 
Lucifer;  and  their  captives  to  be  not  the  Emperor  and  suite 
but  two  beautiful  women.  .  .  . 

When  the  prisoners  had  been  exchanged — i.  e.,  the  two  fair 
girls  restored  to  Dupin,  and  Rodrigo  freed — and  Rodrigo  had 
hurried  away  to  gather  his  scattered  vagabonds  from  among 
the  foothills,  the  Missourians  realized  their  predicament. 
That  day  they  had  fought  the  Empire.  Then  they  had  turned 
and  fought  the  Republic  in  the  person  of  the  guerrilla  chief, 
Rodrigo  Gal£n.  They  had  rebelled  against  the  rebels,  so 
were  doubly  rebel,  doubly  outlawed.  Ye  gods,  it  was 
bizarre!  And  as  morning  dawned  on  them  trailing  along  a 


A  Crop  of  Colonels  327 

dreary  inferno  gorge  of  the  Sierra  Gorda,  they  blinked  at  each 
other  ruefully.  Poor  waifs,  they  had  lost  their  native  country. 
And  now,  one  rainy  morning,  they  found  they  had  lost  an 
adopted  one.  But  each  man  looked  into  a  face  likewise  so 
rueful  that  his  own  broke  into  a  grin. 

"We'll  just  start  a  new  country,"  cried  Driscoll  abruptly. 

His  voice  sounded  strange  and  very  unlike  him,  but  the 
inspiration  was  characteristic  of  the  man,  and  true  to  the  old 
irrepressible  Storm  Centre  they  had  known.  Hunted  outlaws, 
they  too  were  in  the  mood  for  any  desperate  venture.  Spon- 
taneous as  wildfire,  they  seconded  this  one  ere  they  had  asked  a 
question.  They  never  did  ask  "How?" 

"A  new  country,"  roared  Tall  Mose,  "but  where?" 

"And  when?"  Old  Brothers  and  Sisters  inquired  gently. 

"We'll  start  right  after  breakfast,"  their  intrepid  leader 
replied.  "And  right  here  in  Mexico.  It's  anybody's  country 
yet,  and  we  might  as  well  slice  off  a  little  private  republic  for 
ourselves." 

"And  won't  we  fight,  by  Jiminy!"  drawled  Cal  Grinders, 
with  Ozarkian  deliberation. 

"And  it  don't  matter  whom  we  fight,"  Marmaduke  added. 
"Let  'em  show  themselves,  Slim  Max  or  Don  Benito.  We'll 
meet  all  comers." 

That  was  the  mood  they  were  in,  and  they  were  in  it  to  the 
chin.  Submit  a  wholesale  fighting  order,  and  they  bid  for  it 
like  neither  bulls  no  bears,  but  like  wolves. 

"About  taxation?"  asked  Clay  of  Carroll  dubiously. 

But  as  a  good  general,  or  as  another  Romulus,  Driscoll  had 
figured  it  all  out.  His  answer  brought  comfort. 

"We'll  not  have  any.  We  will  levy  on  commerce,  as  repub- 
lics have  the  right  to  do." 

"Then,"  said  Carroll  of  Clay,  "we'll  need  a  seaport?" 

"Of  course.  Ain't  Tampico  simply  waiting  for  us?  The 
French  aren't  there  now.  They  are  concentrating  in  Mexico 


328  The  Missourian 

City  for  evacuation.  There's  no  more  of  a  garrison  than  what 
Old  Tige  left,  a  few  hundred  Cossacks.  If  we  get  there  before 
the  Liberals "  .  \  . 

.  .  .  And  why  not?  They  were  nearly  five  hundred  and 
greater  than  Romulus.  They  were  Missourians,  sir.  They 
were  from  that  State  which  gave  the  best  fighters  to  both  sides; 
which,  population  considered,  gave  more  to  the  North  than  any 
other  Northern  state,  more  to  the  South  than  any  other  Southern 
state,  and  yet  as  a  state  would  be  a  Republic  unto  herself. 
What,  then,  might  not  be  possible  to  these  her  sons  on  a  foreign 
shore  ?  Intrepid  youngsters,  they  were  of  royal  State  lineage, 
Missourians  from  Kentucky,  Kentuckians  from  Virginia,  which 
was  in  the  beginning.  Dauntless  cavaliers  of  the  Blood,  if 
they  chose  to  carve  themselves  a  kingdom,  why  not? 

But  they  themselves  answered  the  questions,  questions  that 
had  men's  lives  in  them  thicker  than  hard  words  in  the  Blue- 
back  speller.  The  business  was  as  already  done,  and  Mose 
Bledsoe  could  go  back  to  his  chant  with  an  easy  mind.  And 
once  more  Missouri's  revered  saga  echoed  among  the  crags: 

"I  come  from  old  Missouri, 

Yes,  all  the  way  from  Pike. 
I'll  tell  you  why  I  left  there, 

And  why  I  came  to  roam 
And  leave  my  poor  old  mammy, 

So  far  away  from  home." 

Then,  the  bard  leading  in  a  fashion  vociferous,  the  whole 
command  helped  out: 

"  Says  she  to  me, '  Joe  Bowers, 

You  are  the  man  to  win; 
Here's  a  kiss  to  bind  the  bargain,' 
And  she  hove  a  dozen  in.     .     .     ." 

.     .     .     Bivouacked  under  the  black-lipped    howitzers  of 
Tampico's     sullen     heights.     .     .     .     Dismal     fens    .     .•   ..; 
where  fever  exhaled  its  dread  gray  breath  thick  over  swamp 
and  lagoon     .     .     .     above,  the  vast  aegis  of  the  firmament, 


A  Crop  of  Colonels  329 

wrought  in  a  diamond  dust  of  stars  ...  a  sickly,  jaundiced, 
moon  tilted  drunkenly.  .  .  .  Through  ooze  and  fetid 
slime  the  Americans  crept  stealthily  out  of  the  reeds;  and  on, 
over  cypress  roots,  silently  in  the  silent  night;  on,  up  the  hill 
under  the  low  walls  of  Fort  Iturbide.  Gently  and  fleeting  as  a 
dark  beauty's  sigh  in  old  Castile,  they  were  come  in  canister 
range. 

"Steady,  men,"  their  leader  whispered. 

"Unto  death,"  came  the  low-breathed  response. 

[No  such  words  were  uttered,  as  Daniel  knew  perfectly  well, 
but  he  knew  that  they  should  be — in  the  telling.]  .  .  . 

.  .  .  A  sharp  cry  ...  fearful  alarums  from  the  crest 
of  the  hill  .  .  .  next  a  belching  fury  of  grape.  .  .  . 
But  Tall  Mose  was  happier  for  it.  The  seal  was  off  his  lips 
at  last,  and  out  thundered  his  stentorian  war-song: 

"O  Sally!  dearest  Sally! 
O  Sally!  for  your  sake.    .    .    .** 

.  .  .  still  upward,  until  the  cannon  fumes  broke  as  a  dun- 
colored  wave  over  pennant  and  plume  .  .  .  and  grimy 
troops  fell  as  spring  blossoms  in  a  balmy  south  breeze.  .  .  . 
Dying  as  they  loved  to  die,  game  to  the  last  .  .  .  they 
stumbled  back  to  the  river,  which  swept  over  the  gallant 
stranger  slain.  .  .  . 

" .     .     .    It's  enough  to  make  me  swear!— 
That  Sally  had  a  baby, 
And  the  baby  had  red  hair.    .    .    ." 

.  .  .  Then  piercing  and  wildly  plaintive,  the  clarions 
rang  out,  clamoring  for  victory  and  vce  metis  .  .  .  and 
Din  DriscolFs  hoarse  voice  .  .  .  "We  are  the  last  of  the 
race,  let  us  be  the  best  as  well."  .  .  .  "Back  at  'em,  fel- 
lows!" Bledsoe  bellows.  .  .  .  And  the  parson  mur- 
murs, "He  prays  best  who  fights  best,  both  great  and  small" 
...  his  soft  voice  tremulous  enough  for  Glory,  his  superb 


33©  The  Missourian 

trigger  finger  disturbing  enough  for  Chaos.  ...  At  last, 
the  supreme  command  "like  volley 'd  lightning" — "Give  'em 
the  revolver.  Charge!"  .  .  . 

Not  until  the  story  is  told  shall  .  .  .  for  over  the  bat- 
tered masonry,  in  through  the  splintered  doors,  felling  shadowy 
foes  on  every  hand.  .  .  .  When  well  within-side  .  .,  . 
the  prowess  of  each  unto  himself  .  .  .  tempest  of  pistol 
cracking  .  .  .  bleeding  deathfully  .  .  .  ah,  the  kill- 
ing is  fast  and  desperate  .  .  .  and  not  a  candle  over  the 
pitiless  fray.  .  .  .  Huddled  together  for  a  brief  last  stand, 
the  Cossacks  .  .  .  panic,  flight.  .  .  .  The  fort  is 
taken! 

When  the  incarnadine  embers  of  sunrise  glowed  in  the  east, 
the  Missourians  stood  on  the  battlements  and  surveyed  their 
domain.  "You  are  the  man  to  win,  Joe  Bowers,"  Mose 
hummed  with  an  I-told-you-so  air,  but  softly,  for  many  of  his 
comrades  were  wounded,  though  he  was  not,  as  usual,  for  all 
his  seven  feet  of  perpendicular  target.  But  "the  Doc,"  of 
Benton,  was,  of  course.  Getting  wounded  was  the  greatest 
trouble  with  Doc.  If  he  attacked  a  hornet's  nest,  he  would 
contrive  some  way  to  get  a  leg  shot  off.  But  with  him  such 
things  had  become  to  be  a  matter  of  course,  so  now  he  crated 
himself  together  enough  to  move  around  and  attend  to  the 
others.  Driscoll  was  most  innumerably  barked,with  a  perforated 
humerus  as  climax.  [The  modest  Boone  might  have  catalogued 
similarly  his  own  casualties.]  Old  Brothers  and  Sisters,  that 
cool  Christian,  had  lost  a  lens  out  of  his  spectacles,  and  was  now 
replacing  it  from  a  supply  he  always  carried.  What,  though, 
were  fractured  arms  and  busted  specs  to  becoming  a  repub- 
lic over  night? 

But  eternal  vigilance  is  ever  .  .  .  and  menace  was  not 
long  in  coming.  Three  French  gunboats,  like  sluggish  water 
beetles,  crossed  the  bar  and  steamed  up  the  river.  .  .  . ., 
Promptly  the  howitzers  on  the  ramparts  were  trained.  .  .  . 


A  Crop  of  Colonels  33! 

Bat  there  was  no  need  ...  a  white  flag  ...  a 
naval  lieutenant  at  the  fortress  gate.  .  .  .  The  gunboats 
had  not  come  to  fight.  Bazaine  had  sent  them  to  carry  off  the 
endangered  garrison,  it  being  expected  that  a  Liberal  army 
under  a  General  Pavon  would  shortly  besiege  the  place.  The 
Frenchman  was  astounded  to  find  that  the  Liberals,  as  he 
imagined  the  Missourians,  had  already  arrived.  Driscoll 
allowed  him  to  embark  the  dislodged  garrison,  as  well  as  the 
defenders  of  the  other  fort,  Casa  Mata;  that  is,  all  except  those 
who  might  want  to  change  sides.  And  nearly  every  Mexican 
among  the  Cossacks  did  change.  It  was  a  sign  of  the  panic 
that  had  spread  throughout  the  Empire.  Driscoll  also  insisted 
on  the  burial  of  certain  guerrilla  corpses  which  Dupin  had  left 
hanging  to  the  town's  lamp  posts.  After  which  the  gunboats 
took  themselves  out  of  republican  waters. 

Yet  they  left  behind  expectancy.  So,  a  Liberal  army  two 
thousand  strong  was  approaching?  The  Missourians  pro- 
visioned themselves  from  the  town  and  rested  on  their  arms. 
The  Liberal  host  appeared,  variegated  of  costume,  piratical  of 
aspect.  .  .  .  Again  a  flag  of  truce.  .  .  .  "  If  the  senores 
Imperialistas  desired  to  surrender?"  .  .  .  "We  are  not 
Imperialists,"  came  the  reply  from  the  fort,  "and  we're  blessedly 
d-n-d  if  we  desire  to  surrender."  .  .  .  "Then,  the  saints 
bless  us,  who  are  you?"  .  .  .  "The  Republic  of  Tam- 
pico,  de  facto  and  determined." 

The  dumfounded  Liberals  scratched  their  heads.  They 
were  Republicans,  and  here  was  a  republic,  and  naturally  it 
bothered  them.  But  when  they  had  gotten  it  tangled  unmis- 
takably enough,  they  decided  that  they  wanted  surrender 
anyhow,  if  the  senores  Tampicoistas  would  have  the  kindness 
.  .  .  and  on  refusal  from  the  fort,  they  withdrew  to  load 
their  siege  guns. 

They  had  sent  a  shot  or  two  and  received  a  dozen,  when  an 
Indito,  emaciated  and  loathsome  from  scales  of  dirt,  dashed 


332  The  Missourian 

from  nowhttx  through  the  cross-fire  and  pounded  at  the  fortress 
door.  Driscoll  ordered  him  admitted.  The  first  President 
of  the  Tampico  Republic  seemed  extraordinarily  anxious 
about  this  ragged  vagabond,  especially  as  he  had  perceived  a 
second  one,  likewise  from  nowhere,  dash  into  the  Liberal 
camp.  Ten  minutes  later  the  enemy  ceased  firing.  "Now 
come,  all  of  you,"  Driscoll  then  said  to  his  little  army,  "and 
hear  what  he's  got  to  tell.  I  reckon  he's  a  Shorter  Yet."  .  .  . 
"From  Shorty,  then!"  exclaimed  his  men.  And  so  it  proved, 
for  the  Indito  produced  the  usual  bit  of  parchment,  signed 
El  Chaparrito  and  countersigned  Benito  Juarez,  Libertad  y 
Reforma.  The  message  thereon  demanded  why  the  Coronel 
Driscoll  and  his  new  recruits,  for  the  cause  had  turned  against 
it.  ...  "'Cause  we  don't  hanker  after  hanging,"  Cal 
Grinders  interposed.  .  .  .  Was  it,  Driscoll  continued  to 
read,  because  they  thought  they  had  lost  favor  by  fighting 
Rodrigo  Gal&n  ?  If  so,  there  was  naught  against  them,  noth- 
ing, because  President  Juarez  had  outlawed  Galan  for  robbing 
a  bullion  convoy.  It  was  true  that  the  writer  of  the  parchment 
had  used  the  said  Rodrigo,  in  the  hope  of  capturing  Maximilian, 
but  the  bandit  was  not  for  that  reason  a  Republican  officer. 
.  .  .  "In  other  words,"  lisped  Crittenden  of  Nodaway, 
"we're  in-lawed  because  the  good  patriot  Don  Rodrigo  is  away 
out-lawed."  .  .  .  "Therefore,"  the  parchment  went  on, 
"His  Excellency  the  Presidente  through  the  writer  has  herewith 
sent  a  message  to  General  Pa  von  of  the  besieging  camp  to  com- 
ply with  whatever  Their  Mercies  the  Americans  may  deem  fit 
to  require.  Further,  knowing  the  temper  of  Their  Mercies, 
General  Pavon  is  ordered  to  at  once  cease  operations  and  leave 
Their  Mercies  in  possession." 

The  Missourians  looked  at  one  another  and  were  reluctant. 
They  hated  to  forego  a  battle.  But  it  takes  two  sides  to  make 
one.  Not  outlawed,  not  even  threatened,  they  had  no  excuse 
to  hold  against  the  Liberals. 


A  Crop  of  Colonels  333 

"But,"  said  Crittenden,  "as  an  ally  of  this  sister  Republic, 
we'll  still  have  our  fighting." 

"Well,"  demanded  Driscoll,  "what  will  you  ask  for?" 

"Our  Cordova  lands  back,  after  we've  won  them  from  the 
Empire." 

"And,"  put  in  Grinders,  "equality.  We  want  republican 
equality." 

"Then  we'll  all  be  privates?" 

"No  sir-ee,  by  cracken!  Equality  high  up,  that's  what! 
We'll  be  colonels,  breveted  colonels,  every  last  one  of  us — 
Colonel  Driscoll,  Colonel  Grinders,  Colonel  Brothers  and  Sis- 
ters, Colonel " 

"That's  easy,"  said  Driscoll  smiling.  "Now  I'll  go  and 
fix  it  up  with  General  Pavon,  before  he  gets  away." 

.  .  .  To  conclude  this  chapter  on  the  Missourians' 
Republic,  there  is  yet  a  word,  which  perhaps  is  also  expla- 
nation of  the  saddened  change  that  had  come  over  Din 
Driscoll  since  that  night  after  the  battle  with  Don  Rodrigo. 
It  must  be  remembered  that  the  peerless  lad  had  just  won  his 
old  comrades  to  the  Mexican  Republican  cause.  While  yet 
rejoicing  that  here  he  more  than  made  good  the  three  hundred 
Liberals  he  had  helped  to  capture  when  a  captain  under  the 
Empire,  he  found  that  he  had  only  cast  his  recruits  out  of  the 
pale  of  law,  first  against  the  Empire,  and  then  against  the  Repub- 
lic. .  .  .  Then  he  proposed  their  own  republic,  and  for 
themselves  they  took  Tampico  from  the  French.  But  why? 
What  was  the  real  object  in  Driscoll's  innermost  thought? 
The  suspicion  arises :  Was  it  to  win  a  peace-offering  wherewith 
to  make  friends  again  with  the  Liberals  ?  Such  an  explanation 
of  his  otherwise  wild  scheme  is  but  a  theory,  but  the  theory 
fits,  for  John  D.  Driscoll,  though  as  reckless  as  any  and 
quick  for  any  forlorn  hope,  was,  when  a  leader,  scrupulously 
practical. 

The  above  suggestion,  moreover,  is  apropos  in  these  later 


334  The  Missourian 

days,  when  the  Tampico  Republic  has  become  to  be  folklore 
throughout  Missouri,  and  when  our  cousins,  the  Kentuckians, 
even  those  proud  colonels  by  acclamation,  cannot  rank  beside 
these  five  hundred  colonels  scattered  over  the  sister  state;  so 
that,  when  a  stranger  questions,  a  Missourian  answers:  "He  a 
colonel?  W'y  yes,  of  course,  sir.  And,  by  God  sir,  a  Tam- 
pico colonel,  too!  Yes,  one  of  the  five  hundred!"  and  the 
stranger's  eyes  bulge  as  he  takes  off  his  hat. 
[The  deposition  of  Meagre  Shanks  ends  here.] 


CHAPTER  VIII 
ROYAL    RESOLUTION 

".     .     .     O  restless  fate  of  pride, 
That  strives  to  learn  what  Heaven  resolves  to  hide." — The  Iliad. 

ON  returning  to  the  capital,  Jacqueline  did  not  once  set  foot 
in  any  Imperial  palace,  but  she  established  her  own  salon  of  a 
grande  dame,  and  there  installed  herself  mid  a  simple  elegance. 
What  was  left  of  the  mortgaged  chateau  in  the  Bourbonnais 
went  to  pay  for  it.  Jacqueline  would  accept  not  a  louis 
out  of  Napoleon's  Black  Chest.  A  French  gentlewoman, 
she  impoverished  herself  to  work  for  France.  And  when, 
a  little  later,  Napoleon  dishonored  his  own  name  and 
that  of  France  in  his  dealings  with  Maximilian,  she  thanked 
the  instinct  that  had  kept  her  free.  Puddles  muddied  one's 
skirt  so!  The  valiant  maid  broke  her  sword.  She  would 
serve  no  longer.  At  least,  she  was  quite  certain  that  she  would 
not. 

Napoleon's  shame  lay  in  this.  Maximilian  had  accepted 
his  harsh  ultimatum  regarding  the  Mexican  customs,  and  in 
return  for  such  humiliation  he  depended  on  the  presence  of  the 
French  troops  for  yet  another  year.  But  the  United  States 
threatened  war,  and  Napoleon  cringed.  He  would  withdraw 
the  troops  immediately.  He  would  abandon  Maximilian, 
treaty  or  no  treaty.  Thus  the  quiet  forces  in  the  American 
Legation  at  Paris  battled  against  the  proud  House  of  Orleans. 
The  princess  of  that  House  failed.  She  could  not  save  her 
husband's  throne,  and  her  own.  Her  mind  gave  way.  She 
became  a  raving  maniac.  So  much  for  Charlotte's  mission. 

335 


3-36  The  Missourian 

With  the  news  Maximilian  was  a  broken  man.  He  seemed 
to  remember  his  promise  to  rejoin  her  in  Europe,  for  he  set 
out  coastward  and  left  the  marshal  a  letter  that  was  virtually 
his  abdication.  Yet  in  the  Hot  Country  he  stopped  for  his 
health.  An  Austrian  frigate  waited  for  him.  But  behind 
him  was  his  capital.  Would  he  return?  History  will  never 
know,  perhaps,  the  soul-despairing  network  of  intrigue  and 
counter-intrigue  that  wound  and  tightened  about  the  young 
sapling  roots  that  would  strike  deep  in  an  unnourishmg  soil 
and  become  a  dynastic  oak.  The  rabid  clericals,  who  were 
Maximilian's  ministers  at  the  time,  thought  their  puppet  gone, 
and  in  terror  of  an  avenging  Republic  they  resigned.  But 
Bazaine,  urged  to  it  by  Padre  Fischer,  prevailed  upon  them  to 
remain,  and  Fischer  gave  his  word  that  the  puppet  would  not 
escape.  So  France  lost  another  chance  to  take  back  the  Mex- 
ican Empire,  and  thereby  pave  a  way  out  of  her  shame.  For 
while  Maximilian  recuperated,  he  reconsidered.  Clerical 
generals  assured  him  of  armies,  the  ministers  talked  eloquently 
of  treasure  from  the  Church  coffers.  The  fat  padre  manipu- 
lated generals  and  ministers  and  Emperor,  He  was  supreme. 
None  might  come  near  the  royal  ear  except  at  his  pleasure. 

It  was  at  this  time,  about  the  first  of  the  year,  some  six  months 
after  Charlotte  had  sailed  to  Europe,  and  only  a  few  weeks 
before  the  French  would  do  the  same,  that  one  evening  Jacque- 
line's footman  brought  her  a  plainly  sealed  envelope,  without 
crest,  without  writing.  She  tore  it  open,  and  started  as  she 
looked  at  a  simple  autograph  on  the  card  inside. 

"His — this  gentleman,  Tobie,  you  admitted  him?" 

The  well- trained  servant  stood  impassive.  "What  would 
madame  have?"  he  replied.  "The  man  walked  in  like  a  lord, 
keeping  his  face  hid  in  a  cloak.  But  if  madame " 

"Was  there  a  carriage?" 

"No,  madame,  but  I  noticed  a  saddle  horse  at  a  little  distance, 
held  by  a  mounted  soldier  with  a  carbine.  But  if  madame " 


Royal  Resolution  337 

"He  is  in  the  drawing-room,  then?" 

"Oui,  madame,  and  without  removing  his  Mexican  som- 
brero. But  if  madame  desires  that  this  citizen  find  himself — 
h'm — pressed  to  go " 

"Tobie!  No,  on  the  contrary,  you  will  permit  him  to  wait 
undisturbed,  until  I  come." 

A  few  minutes  later  Jacqueline  beheld  a  tall  figure  in  elegant 
charro  garb  striding  the  length  of  her  salon.  As  she  entered, 
her  guest  threw  off  sombrero  and  Spanish  cloak,  and  revealed 
the  drawn  and  troubled  features  of  the  Emperor  of  Mexico. 

"Your  Majesty  has  returned  to  His  capital!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Then  it  is  true " 

"That  I  shall  cling  to  my  play-empire?  But  I  do  not  know 
yet,  mademoiselle,  I  do  not  know  yet.  If  I  did,  I  should  not 
be  here,  here  in  your  house  for  the  first  time,  and  against  your 
wishes " 

"Will  Your  Highness  be  seated?" 

Maximilian  flung  himself  wearily  into  an  armchair.  The 
fire  of  the  enthusiast  had  died  out  of  his  eyes,  and  the  fire  of 
fever  had  left  them  faded.  They  reminded  one  of  the  blue  of 
old-fashioned  china. 

"But  why "  she  began. 

"Why  come  to  you,  you  mean?  I  don't  know;  instinct,  I 
suppose." 

"Isn't  that  rather  vague?  Your  Imperial  Highness  returns 
to  the  City,  to  his  palace — 

"Not  to  his  palace,  mademoiselle,  not  while  it  would  seem  a 
mockery  of  my  poor  imperial  state,  but  to  an  hacienda  in  the 
suburbs.  If  I  enter  my  Mexican  palace  again,  it  will  be  because 
I  have  decided  to  remain  an  emperor." 

"And  for  the  reason  that  you  have  not  so  decided,  you  do 
me  the  honor " 

"I  do  myself  the  service,  mademoiselle.  I  can  bear  this 
torment  of  indecision  no  longer,  and  you  can  help  me,  for  you, 


338  The  Missourian 

dear  lady,  see  clearly  where  the  vision  of  others  is  distorted. 
The  enthusiasm  of  the  others  is  unsafe.  Yes,"  he  sighed, 
with  a  little  superior  air  of  resignation  to  all  human  foibles, 
"those  on  whose  loyalty  I  can  depend  are  indeed  few,  but  I 
am  thankful  that  among  them  are  my  ministers,  and  my 
faithful  secretary,  Father  Augustin  Fischer " 

"Then  why,  in  heaven's  name,  does  Your  Highness  come 
to  me?" 

"Instinct,  or — perhaps  it's  mania.  Something  has  forced 
me  to  learn  what  you  would  say." 

Jacqueline's  foot — a  small  digression,  at  most — was  slippered 
in  blue,  and  this  she  pillowed  on  a  cushion  of  red.  And  on 
another  cushion  she  settled  her  elbow;  and  the  sleeve  of  the 
chemisette,  or  blouse,  or  whatever  the  high-necked  filmy 
white  garment  was,  fell  away,  revealing  a  rounded  forearm 
clasped  in  a  band  of  gold.  And  resting  her  chin  on  her  thumb, 
she  regarded  the  young  prince  thoughtfully.  In  her  look  there 
may  have  been  a  sedate  twinkle  of  amusement,  but  all  was 
gently,  pityingly  sympathetic. 

"Let  me  know,"  she  said,  "more  of  the  doubts  that  trouble 
Your  Highness." 

Unerringly  she  touched  the  right  chord.  Doubts,  yes, 
doubts  of  a  broken  dreamer.  Illusions  shattered  as  bubbles. 
A  dweller  in  an  ideal  shadow,  believing  that  subjects  needed 
only  lofty  phrases,  Maximilian  was  finding  himself  tragically 
maladjusted  to  the  modern  day  in  which  he  lived.  But  as  the 
words  tumbled  from  his  lips  in  the  passionate  relief  of  un- 
burdening, it  quickly  appeared  that  his  misgivings  arose  only 
because  he  had  fallen  short  of  Dark  Age  standards.  He 
recalled  bitterly  how,  unlike  the  illustrious  among  his  an- 
cestors, he  had  not  stirred  until  others  had  won  his  crown  for 
him.  But  destiny  was  kind.  He  had  the  chance  for  redemp- 
tion. To  hold  his  empire  now  depended  on  him  alone.  He 
would  mount  his  horse,  give  to  the  light  a  true  Hapsburg  blade, 


Royal  Resolution  339 

and  valiantly  ride  forth  to  conquer  or  perish,  and  in  any  hazard 
be  worthy  of  his  House. 

Then,  without  abrupt  change,  he  talked  of  Austria's  late 
woes.  Had  he  but  commanded  his  country's  ships  at  Lissa! 
Could  he  but  have  risked  his  life  at  Sadowa!  And  moreover, 
he  was  still  needed  over  there.  But  in  some  quick  recollection 
a  moisture  dimmed  the  blue  eyes.  He  drew  from  his  vaquero 
jacket  a  dispatch.  It  was  from  Franz  Josef.  If  Maximilian 
returned  to  Austria,  the  message  ran,  then  he  must  leave 
behind  the  title  of  Emperor — leave  behind  even  the  title! 

"And  will  that  hurt  so  much?"  asked  Jacqueline. 

The  Ritual  again !  For  it  a  man  withheld  asylum  from  his 
brother. 

"Is  there  no  mother,"  cried  the  exasperated  girl,  "to  spank 
both  your  Majesties  ?  " 

"'Tis  of  Her  Serene  Highness "  Maximilian  began  with 

dignity. 

"Highness?  Yes,  I  forgot,  but  not  high  enough  to  chide 
majesty,  though  she  be  a  mother." 

"Yet  she  has  only  just  warned  me  of  her  deep  displeasure 
if — No,  her  message  shall  wait.  I  wish  to  hear  first  what  you 
think.  Tell  me,  shall  I  go,  or  shall  I  stay  ?  Tell  me,  tell  me, 
and  why!" 

Feverishly  the  man  craved  one  frank  word.  There  was  in 
his  look  the  prayer  of  a  desperate  gambler  who  watches  a  card 
poised  between  the  dealer's  fingers.  Jacqueline  had  one 
answer  only.  But  exactly  how  to  express  it,  lest  she  be  wrongly 
taken,  made  her  pause. 

"In  the  first  place,"  she  began  slowly,  "there  is  only  a 
single  consideration  involved,  and  in  that  lies  the  solution 
of  Your  Majesty's  doubts.  I  mean  the  consideration  of 
honor.  Now  if  Your  Highness  is — whipped  off  his  throne — 
that  is  ignojniny — But  wait,  wait,  I  am  not  through.  I ' 

"Almost  my  mother's  words!"  he  cried  triumphantly.    And 


340  The  Missourian 

with  a  hand  that  trembled,  he  got  out  the  letter  from  that 
Archduchess  Sophia  who  had  given  one  son  a  crown  and  loved 
this  other  as  her  darling. 

"'Rather  than  suffer  humiliation  by  a  French  policy'"  he 
read  from  her  letter,  '"stay,  stay,  though  you  be  buried  under 
the  walls  of  Mexico!'" 

"But "  Jacqueline  interposed.  She  had  been  taken 

amiss  after  all. 

"You  too  bid  me  stay,"  he  insisted.  "But  I  might  have 
known.  I  might  have  known.  One  who  never  errs  said  that 
this  would  be  your  counsel.  The  Padre  is  wonderful — 
wonderful!" 

Father  Fischer,  of  course!  What  else?  How  consummate 
was  the  snake  in  his  cunning!  He  counted  on  honesty  and 
nobility  in  another,  though  having  none  himself.  He  knew 
Jacqueline.  He  thought  that,  both  good  and  frank,  she  must 
advise  the  Emperor  as  his  mother  had  done.  Accordingly, 
when  Maximilian  became  afflicted  with  doubts,  the  priest 
allowed  him  to  go  to  Jacqueline.  She  would  be  an  accomplice 
despite  herself.  Only  his  judgment  did  not  go  quite  far 
enough.  Jacqueline  had  not  spoken  all  her  mind. 

Imperiously  she  compelled  Maximilian's  attention.  "I 
said  ignominy,  yes,"  she  persisted,  "but  I  would  have  added 
that  honor — the  modern  and  the  decent — and  the  only  courage, 
lies  in  facing  this  same  ignominy.  Listen.  If  the  least  of 
impure  ambition  enters  in  your  decision  to  remain,  then 
for  each  death  in  the  civil  war  that  must  result,  Your  Highness 
may  hold  himself  to  account,  and  so  be  held  by  history.  Now," 
she  went  on,  unmoved  by  the  fact  that  he  had  winced,  "the 
question  remains  with  Your  Highness — does  aught  besides 
honor  hold  you  to  stay?" 

To  himself  he  answered  as  she  spoke,  and  guilt  confessed 
mounted  his  brow. 

"But  there,"  she  said,  "Father  Fischer  will  interpret  the 


Royal  Resolution  341 

will  of  the  Almighty.  Before  Your  Imperial  Highness  retires 
to-night,  my  words  will  be  forgotten." 

The  lash  fell  on  flesh  already  raw  and  smarting.  To  predict 
that  he  would  change  yet  again,  when  to  change  he  branded 
himself  a  wilful  murderer — no!  That  was  more  than  he  could 
endure.  She  must  not  think  that  of  him.  He  held  out  his 
hand.  "Jeanne!"  he  murmured  imploringly. 

"Don't!"  she  cried,  "Don't  call  me  that!" 

Then  she  bit  her  lip,  and  her  fury  turned  against  herself. 
"Jeanne"  was  feminine  and  French  for  "John,"  which  was 
masculine  and — American.  This  important  discovery  she 
had  made  months  ago  when  riding  beside  a  man  whose  horse 
was  "  Demijohn."  As  a  girl  in  love,  she  had  found  a  cozy  joy  in 
their  names  being  the  same.  But  for  that  very  reason  any 
recollection  of  it,  since  then,  was  the  less  to  be  borne. 

Blushing  indignantly,  she  saw  that  Maximilian  was  regarding 
her  with  a  puzzled  expression.  Manlike,  he  referred  it  to  him- 
self, and  suddenly,  he  too  started.  Only  once  before  had  he 
addressed  her  thus  familiarly,  which  was  during  that  memor- 
able afternoon  beside  the  artificial  lake  at  Cuernavaca.  Here, 
therefore,  must  lie  the  association  that  caused  her  agitation. 
Yet,  since  that  afternoon,  she  had  permitted  no  reference  to 
their  interview,  unless  to  raise  her  brows  quizzically  at  his 
continued  presence  in  Mexico.  But  now,  what  of  the  self- 
betrayal  into  which  he  had  just  surprised  her?  It  could  not 
but  be  connected  with  that  other  time  when  he  had  murmured 
her  name.  There  was,  however,  no  conscious  vanity  in  the 
remarkable  explanation.  It  was  remorse.  He  thought  of 
Charlotte,  his  wife.  And  this  other  woman,  had  he  wronged 
her  also  ?  For  during  the  past  weeks  of  trouble  he  had  forgotten 
that  he  had  loved  her,  and  she  had  not  forgotten.  In  two  such 
facts,  falling  together,  was  the  wrong,  and  one  that  a  woman 
scarcely  ever  forgives,  as  he  had  had  reason  to  know. 

"I  could  not  help  supposing,  mademoiselle,"  he  ventured 


342  The  Missourian 

diffidently,  "that  what  you  said  at  Cuernavaca  was  inspired 
by — by  no  feeling  toward  myself.  I  could  suppose  nothing 
else  in  the  light  of  your  utter  indifference  since  then,  and — and 
your  aversion  for  my  very  presence." 

Jacqueline  laughed  pleasantly.  "In  that  Your  Highness 
deceives  himself.  I  did  then,  as  I  do  now,  feel  for  Your 
Highness  enough  to  wish  him  safely  out  of  Mexico." 

"Charity,  then?" 

She  did  not  protest. 

"As  I  thought,"  he  said.  "There  was  no  feeling  in — 
in " 

Jacqueline  raised  her  eyes  and  met  his  frankly. 

"When  a  woman  feels  in  the  sense  you  mean,  sire,"  she 
said,  "then  she  does  not  make  an  empire,  even  the  Austrian 
Empire,  a  condition.  If  the  man  in  question  has  no  more  than 

his  horse,  his  pistols,  even  his  pipe,  then  the  woman "  But 

she  stopped  abruptly. 

"With  you,"  he  granted  honestly,  "it  was  not  a  matter  of 
personal  ambition  either.  But  if  neither  of  these,  then  what — 
Now  I  see!"  he  cried.  "A  state  reason!  A  decoy,  to  tempt 
me  out  of  Mexico!  Yes,  yes,  now  I  see!" 

"It  is  good  to  know,"  said  Jacqueline,  not  ungratefully, 
"that  Your  Majesty  at  least,  if  no  other,  can  see  a  high  motive 
in  my  self  abasement." 

"Now  what  can  she  mean  by  that?"  he  demanded  of  himself. 
"What  other,  in  particular,  thinks  hard  of  her  that  she  should 
care?" 

filoin  was  the  only  other  man  who  could  have  seen  them, 
there  at  Cuernavaca.  No,  little  it  mattered  to  her  what  filoin 
thought.  But — yes,  there  was  another.  There  was  the 
American  who  had  intruded  and  wanted  to  save  his  empire. 
Maximilian  recalled  now  her  change  to  bitterness  after  the 
American  had  left  them,  and  a  moment  ago  he  had  seen  the 
identical  pain  of  self-contempt  tug  at  her  lips.  And  yet,  once 


Royal  Resolution  343 

she  had  left  the  American  to  die.  But  Maximilian  answered 
even  that  objection.  Leaving  him  to  die  was  a  necessity  for 
her  country.  And  the  sacrifice  had  gone  farther.  It  had 
not  faltered  before  the  self-degradation  of  which  she  had  just 
spoken. 

The  admiration  in  his  eyes  grew.  The  chivalry  in  his  race 
awoke  within  him,  and  exalted  him.  He  felt  himself  become  the 
true  knight,  in  the  purity  of  devotion  to  a  woman — a  gentle- 
man, as  real  chivalry  would  have  the  term.  Poor  man  and  poet, 
he  felt  even  the  impulse  to  bend  the  knee  and  crave  as  a  boon 
some  risk  of  life  in  her  service,  without  thought  of  boon  there- 
after— a  knightly  impulse  nearly  obsolete  in  chivalry,  if  ever 
customary.  But  he  knew  now  that  the  impulse  was  really 
possible,  and  the  proof  was  this:  that  the  constraint  between 
them  had  vanished,  that  soon  he  was  talking  with  her  easily 
and  naturally. 

For  Jacqueline  also  the  air  had  become  blessedly  pure, 
and  deeply,  gratefully,  she  breathed  of  it.  Because  now  she 
talked  with  one  whose  respect  was  a  fact,  who  knew  her  for 
what  she  was,  and  during  a  moment's  space  she  was  happy, 
with  the  happiness  of  delusion.  It  seemed  that  other  men, 
that  one  other  man,  might  one  day  know  her  too,  and  give  her 
his  esteem.  But  the  phantasy  passed.  The  knowledge  must 
forever  be  restricted  to  the  man  before  her,  and  for  him  she 
did  not  care. 

Maximilian,  very  strangely,  was  thinking  of  the  very  self- 
same thing.  Here  was  a  service  in  her  behalf  already  offering. 
If  he  could  cause  that  other  man  to  know  ?  But  it  was  out  of 
the  question.  Men  may  convince  one  another  of  a  woman's 
guilt,  and  only  too  easily.  But  of  her  innocence?  No,  it 
was  absurdly  out  of  the  question.  Besides,  next  day  the  true 
knight  would  be  starting  back  for  Europe.  Had  he  not  just 
decided  ? 


CHAPTER  IX 
INTERPRETER  TO  THE  ALMIGHTY 

".     .     .     and  could  make  the  worse  appear 
The  better  reason."— Paradise  Lost. 

AFTER  half  an  hour's  sharp  canter,  Maximilian  dismounted 
at  La  Teja,  his  suburban  hacienda.  He  had  come  quickly 
from  Jacqueline's,  for  his  heart  was  light.  The  stress  and 
storm  of  wavering  were  ended  at  last.  Soon  now  he  would  be 
at  Miramar,  at  beautiful  Miramar,  overlooking  the  sea,  where 
Charlotte  awaited  him,  but  knew  it  not.  And  by  love  and 
tender  care  he  would  coax  her  back  to  sanity.  Ah,  no,  the  pure 
joy  of  living  was  not  done  for  them  yet! 

"Desire  Father  Augustin  to  attend  me  in  my  private  cabi- 
net," he  said  to  the  first  lackey. 

The  huge  priest  came  on  the  instant.  He  bore  a  candle  in 
one  fat,  freckled  hand,  and  above  its  light  the  dull  flesh  of  his 
face  shone  yellow.  His  head  was  as  ever  pear-shaped  with 
its  heavy,  flabby  jowls,  and  in  the  apex  the  two  little  beads  of 
eyes  leaped  adventurously  at  sight  of  the  prince. 

"I  am  here,  sire,"  he  said  purringly.  "Your  Majesty, 
then,  wishes  me  to  prepare  for  his  return  to  the  imperial  palace 
to-morrow  ?  " 

"No,  father,"  His  Majesty  answered  stoutly,  though  not 
without  an  uneasy  glance.  "To-morrow  I  set  out  for  the  coast. 
The  Dandolo  is  still  there  at  anchor.  You  will  give  the  neces- 
sary orders  to  my  Hungarians,  who  will  be  my  escort." 

Fischer  opened  his  lips,  to  close  them.  The  involuntary 
creasing  of  his  brow  smoothed  at  once.  Maximilian,  who  had 

344 


Interpreter  to  the  Almighty  345 

dreaded  argument  from  this  man,  breathed  easier.  But  of 
course  any  man  would  give  way  when  a  Hapsburg  had  irrevo- 
cably made  up  his  mind.  The  padre  laid  down  the  candle, 
and  interlaced  his  bloated  fingers  over  his  paunch  in  an  atti- 
tude of  sleek  calmness.  He  was  smiling  and  fawned  meek 
anxiety  to  second  his  patron's  least  wish. 

"Your  Imperial  Majesty's  wisdom,  I  see,  is  not  a  thing 
to  be  turned  by  the  fraulein  ?" 

"On  the  contrary,  Mademoiselle  la  Marquise  d'Aumerle 
counseled  my  departure,  not  my  remaining." 

The  fingers  tightened  slightly  over  the  bulge  of  the  sutane. 
"She  then  presumed  to  differ  from  Her  Serene  Highness,  Your 
Majesty's  mother?" 

"My  mother  would  counsel  the  same,  were  she  in  Mexico. 
I  thank  you,  padre,  that  I  went  to  see  the  only  one  who  could 
so  take  my  mother's  place,  because  now,  at  last,  I  know  what 
I  must  do." 

The  priest  took  a  long  breath,  and  drew  back,  mentally,  to 
some  vantage  point  whence  he  could  survey  the  field  and  plan 
his  campaign  anew.  He  nodded  humble  acquiescence,  but  the 
small  bright  eyes  seemed  to  gorge  themselves  on  the  prince. 
Maximilian  stirred  restively.  One  has  seen  a  lion  watch  the 
trainer's  whip,  as  though  he  wondered  that  a  creature  with  only 
a  whip  should  yet,  in  some  way,  compel  him  to  do  this  or  that. 
Before  an  obscure  adventurer  the  monarch  hastened  to  justify 
his  abdication.  But  it  did  not  make  him  easier  because 
the  padre  listened  so  obsequiously,  with  never  a  quiver 
before  the  horror  and  misery  pictured.  He  only  listened, 
this  man  of  God,  noting  it  all  deferentially,  item  by  item, 
with  a  smiling  gesture  that  he  heard  and  understood,  and 
was  quite  ready  for  the  next.  Maximilian  became  aware 
at  last  of  his  own  low  stooping.  And  that  moment  he 
stopped  abruptly. 

"The   Lord  reward  Your  Majesty's  tender  heart,"   now 


346  The  Missourian 

spoke  the  priest,  "and  may  the  reward  be  such  as  a  ruler 
should  expect  from  his  God!" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  Maximilian  in  impatient 
anger.  "Have  all  the  barbarities  of  civil  war  no  power  to 
move  you?  Do  I  not  know  that  the  savagery  has  already 
begun?" 

The  curate  crossed  himself.  In  humility  he  would  bear 
the  charge  of  hardness  of  heart.  "Power  to  stir  me?"  he 
repeated.  "If  Your  Majesty  would  think  on  his  power  to 
bring  this  same  savagery  to  an  end !  That  is  his  reward  offered 
by  Heaven,  the  reward  of  bringing  holy  peace  to  a  stricken 
land." 

"  Did  I  not  come  for  that  ?  You  only  remind  me  how  I  have 
failed." 

"And  why,  sire?  Because  your  instruments  were  not 
blessed.  The  French  oppressed  the  Church  as  well  as  the 
people.  But  now  the  French  are  leaving.  It  is  the  hand  of 
Providence." 

"She  said  he  would  interpret  the  will  of  Heaven!"  Maxi- 
milian exclaimed. 

The  priest  heard,  stammered,  and  went  to  wreck  miserably, 
as  a  hypocrite  unmasked  knows  that  his  next  word  must  sound 
like  hypocrisy.  How  slyly  she  had  checkmated  him!  For- 
seeing  his  thrust,  she  had  countered  his  every  shift  of  cunning 
through  this  feeble  fencer  before  him.  And  the  mistake  he  had 
made,  in  sending  Maximilian  to  her!  For  a  moment  the 
expression  of  the  apostate  Lutheran  was  very  ugly  in  its  baffled 
rage.  But  he  was  too  wise  a  trainer  to  lose  patience  utterly. 
He  realized  instead  that  the  struggle  was  harder  than  any  he 
had  yet  had  with  his  royal  dupe,  since  now  his  real  antagonist 
was  the  young  Frenchwoman. 

"I?  I  interpret  the  word  of  God?"  He  said  it  very 
humbly,  with  bowed  head.  "Alas,  Your  Majesty  knows  I 
am  the  last  to  presume  to  that.  But  there  are  those  who  can. 


Interpreter  to  the  Almighty  347 

There  is  the  Holy  Father  in  Rome,  who  is  infallible.  I  only 
know  that  he  told  Your  Majesty's  servant,  myself,  that  a  ruler 
blessed  by  the  Church  is  an  instrument  of  God.  But  if  the 
ruler  turns  his  back  ere  his  work  is  done " 

Maximilian's  nostrils  were  dilating  strangely,  and  the  con- 
summate tempter  hurried  on.  He  exalted  the  grandeur  of 
the  Emperor's  task,  yet  craftily  made  success  appear  simple 
and  easy.  The  forces  of  "the  arch-rebel  Benito  Juarez"  were 
concentrated  in  "a  horde  of  impious  thieves  calling  themselves 
the  Army  of  the  North."  But  Miramon,  His  Majesty's  own 
general,  was  hastening  to  meet  them.  One  decisive  battle, 
and  there  would  be  no  more  rebels.  The  nation  must  then 
recognize  that  the  Empire  had  sustained  itself  without  French 
aid. 

"Of  course  a  few  lives  will  be  lost,"  he  quietly  sneered,  "and 
we  who  do  not  understand  may  grieve  for  them,  but  the  ways 
of  Heaven,  for  its  own  ends,  are  inscrutable.  Your  Majesty 
knows  that  others  before  him,  his  ancestors,  have  had  to 
wade  through  the  blood  of  God's  enemies.  But  Your 
Majesty's  glorious  ancestors  were  fulfilling  their  destiny. 
And  why  should  not  you,  also,  sire,  you  who  are  the  child  of 
destiny?" 

It  was  a  magic  word.  Fischer  knew  his  man  devilishly 
well. 

"But  how  can  I  tell,"  Maximilian  demanded  petulantly, 
"that  my  destiny  really  lies  in  Mexico?" 

"Then  your  destiny,  sire,  must  lie  in  Europe,  in  Austria," 
was  the  priest's  astounding  concession.  "After  all,  a  prince's 
intuitions,  being  given  him  by  divine  revelation,  can  alone  be 
his  guide." 

Maximilian's  eyes  flashed. 

"Then  I  abdicate— herewith !" 

Fischer  meekly  assented. 

"There  are  rumors,  nay,  more  than  rumors,"  he  mused 


348  The  Missourian 

aloud,  "that  a  strong  hand  is  needed  in  Austria.  I  repeat 
only  what  all  Europe  says  boldly,  that  Franz  Josef  cannot  long 
hold  his  throne.  Yes,  yes,  sire,  but  do  not  stare  so! — Yet  the 
crown  prince  is  a  child.  Who  then  shall  be  regent?  Who 
but " 

"Enough,  enough,  I  say!  Now  look  to  my  orders.  We 
start  to-morrow." 

The  secretary  beamed  unctious  joy  that  his  master  had  so 
decided,  and  was  bowing  himself  out,  when  abruptly  he  paused, 
"Oh,  I  forgot,  a  packet  for  Your  Majesty." 

Maximilian  took  the  missive.  It  was  not  heavy.  It  did 
not  seem  as  heavy  as  Fate,  not  as  heavy  as  a  coffin. 

"This  is  an  old  date,"  he  said  in  a  puzzled  way.  "See,  the 
postmark,  'Brussels,  Sept.  17.'" 

"It  just  came  by  courier  from  Vera  Cruz,  being  sent  via  New 
York  no  doubt  accounts  for  the  delay." 

Maximilian  sighed.  Even  the  post  no  longer  considered 
royalty.  Packets  had  taken  on  leisurely  habits  since  the 
Empire's  crumbling — or  since  the  secretary's  ascendancy.  He 
broke  the  seal  with  tremulous  fingers.  The  thing  must  tell 
him  of  Charlotte. 

"From  Monsieur  filoin,"  he  said. 

"But  he — he  does  not  send  bad  news,  nothing,  sire,  of  Her 
Imperial  Highness?" 

Well  enough  did  that  soul  of  mud  know  the  letter's  contents. 
Well  enough  he  knew  that  filoin  and  himself  could  waste  no 
time  on  an  insane  woman.  Their  chances  of  future  position 
were  in  too  critical  a  state.  And  the  packet  was  designed  for 
just  such  a  crisis  as  the  present. 

Maximilian  frowned,  read  excitedly.  He  was  swept  along 
as  by  a  torrent.  Fixed  on  him  were  the  small  bead  eyes  of 
the  priest,  darting  a  light,  like  a  flame  on  oil.  And  when  the 
Emperor  gasped  quickly  and  sprang  to  his  feet  with  hands 
clenched  in  the  manner  of  a  strong  man,  the  priest  was  ready. 


Interpreter  to  the  Almighty  349 

"Good  news,  then?"  he  cried.  "What  fortune!  Now 
Your  Majesty  will  hurry  the  faster  to  Vienna?" 

Maximilian  gave  him  a  glance,  as  though  he  were  dense  to 
think  so. 

"Here,  read,  read  it!" 

M.  filoin,  sycophant,  courtier,  had  never  sung  for  his  royal 
patron  a  roundelay  more  pleasing  than  his  prose  of  the  moment. 
It  caused  to  vibrate  the  very  heart  chords  of  the  susceptible 
prince.  There  were  subtle  appeals  to  spite  ungratified,  to 
wounded  pride,  to  ambition,  to  honor.  The  letter  ran: 

.  .  .  Nevertheless,  I  am  convinced  that  to  abandon  the  throne  now,  before 
the  return  of  the  French  army,  would  be  interpreted  as  an  act  of  weakness.  .  . 

If  this  appeal  (to  the  Mexican  people)  is  not  heard,  then  Your  Majesty,  having 
accomplished  his  noble  mission  to  the  end,  will  return  to  Europe  with  all  the  prestige 
that  accompanied  his  departure;  and  mid  important  events  that  are  certain  to 
happen,  he  will  be  able  to  play  the  role  that  belongs  to  him  in  every  way.  .  .  . 

And  then  the  supreme  refrain: 

In  passing  through  Austria,  I  was  able  to  bear  witness  to  the  general  discontent 
that  reigns  there.  Yet  nothing  is  done  yet.  The  Emperor  is  discouraged;  the 
people  fret  and  publicly  demand  his  abdication;  the  sympathies  for  Your  Majesty 
are  spreading  visibly  throughout  the  entire  Empire;  in  Venetia  a  whole  population 
wishes  to  acclaim  its  former  governor.  ... 

Thus  it  was  that  Eloin  pilfered  Jacqueline's  lever,  and  thus 
he  used  another  fulcrum,  as  he  had  promised  Charlotte  he 
would.  By  pandering  to  Maximilian's  Austrian  ambitions, 
he  showed  the  weak  prince  how  they  could  yet  never  be  realized 
if  prestige  were  lost  in  Mexico.  To  keep  this  prestige,  to 
increase  it,  Maximilian  must  prove  to  Austria  that  he  could 
hold  the  empire  he  already  had,  and  that  without  foreign 
bayonets.  He  had  only  to  stay  a  short  time  after  the  French 
should  evacuate.  And  then,  within  a  few  months,  a  few  weeks, 
he  might  lay  down  the  sceptre  voluntarily,  to  take  up  the  one 
awaiting  him  across  the  ocean. 

"We  will  leave  here  in  the  morning,"  cried  Maximilian — "no, 
to-night,  at  once!" 


3So  The  Missourian 

"  For  Vera  Cruz,  sire  ? "  queried  the  padre. 

"No,  for  my  capital,  for  my  palace!  And  father,  allow  no 
one  to  mention  abdication  to  me  again.  My  decision  to  stay 
is  irrevocable." 

The  padre  promised  faithfully  that  he  should  not  be  dis- 
turbed, and  this  was  one  promise  that  the  good  padre  kept. 


CHAPTER  X 
ALONE  AMONG  His  LOVING  SUBJECTS 

"And  Jove  himself  shall  guard  a  monarch's  right." 

— The  Iliad. 

EARLY  one  morning  a  month  later,  a  solemn  little  group  of 
uniformed  men  climbed  to  the  roof  of  Buena  Vista,  the  imperial 
wedding  gift  to  Marshal  Bazaine,  and  nerving  themselves, 
pulled  down  the  Tricolor.  France,  a  Napoleon,  were  again 
leaving  the  New  World.  It  was  Evacuation. 

The  Army  of  the  Expedition  came  tramping  down  the  Paseo. 
There  were  heavy  Dragoons  and  Cuirassiers,  on  majestic 
chargers.  There  were  light  Chasseurs  and  Lancers,  on  fleet 
Arabians  that  had  often  proved  themselves  against  the  Mexican 
pony.  There  was  the  clanking  of  steel,  and  the  flash  of  helmets 
through  the  dust.  The  imperial  eagles,  gilded  anew,  were 
poised  for  flight  back  to  their  native  aeries.  Lower  in  the 
earthly  cloud  bobbed  the  tasseled  fez  of  the  bronzed  Zouave, 
and  the  perky  red  pompon  on  the  fighting  cap  of  the  little  piou- 
piou.  With  the  steady  beat  of  the  march,  the  pantalons  rouges 
crossed,  spread,  crossed,  spread,  like  regiments  of  bright, 
bloody  shears.  The  bands  played.  And  yet  it  was  not  a 
martial  scene.  Feet,  not  hearts,  lifted  to  the  fife's  thrilling 
note.  Nor  was  the  multitude  that  thronged  the  wide  avenue 
a  fiesta  populace.  It  looked  on  stolidly,  without  a  huzza,  yet 
without  a  hiss.  Enthusiasm  in  either  sense  would  have  been 
relief,  but  the  Mexicans  assisting  at  the  bag  and  baggage  of  an 
invader  were  as  unmoved  as  those  other  spectators,  the  colossal 
figures  in  the  glorietas;  as  the  two  Aztec  giants,  leaning  on 


352  The  Missourian 

their  war  clubs;  as  Guatemotzin,  with  high  feathered  crest 
and  spear  aloft,  foreboding  as  in  life  to  the  European  con- 
queror; as  Columbus,  who,  having  himself  suffered,  gave  now 
no  sign  of  remorse  for  the  blows  which  this  new  hemisphere 
gave  the  old;  as  Charles  IV.  on  his  iron  horse,  who  had  bar- 
gained with  a  former  Napoleon  to  be  called  Emperor  of  Amer- 
ica, and  who,  unlike  Maximilian,  had  wisely  surrendered 
such  a  crown. 

Cavalry,  infantry,  cannon,  wagons,  on  they  came  through 
the  city  and  past  the  Z6calo,  under  the  Cathedral  towers,  under 
the  lifeless,  shuttered  windows  of  the  Palacio.  Here  in  the 
Zocalo,  in  the  central  plaza,  the  sometime  first  lady  of  Her 
Imperial  Majesty's  household  sat  in  her  barouche,  and  opposite 
her  a  pretty  girl,  and  she  was  talking  with  an  officer  of  Chasseurs 
d'Afrique  whose  horse  was  restive,  and  all  the  while  there  was 
the  rumbling  of  wheels,  the  tread  of  feet,  and  the  ring  of  hoofs. 

The  sometime  first  lady  was  saying  good-bye  to  the  officer, 
as  she  had  already  to  many  another  gallant  chevalier  pausing 
beside  her  carriage.  But  for  her  it  was  farewell  to  all  her 
countrymen  there,  to  the  little  piou-pious  most  of  all,  and  her 
gray  eyes  were  frankly  moist. 

"And  now  they  are  going,"  she  mused  aloud,  "really  going, 
because,  parbleau,  a  monsieur  in  Washington  says  they  must." 

"I  wish  to  heaven,"  swore  the  young  officer  gloomily,  "some 
monsieur  would  say  as  much  to  you!  See  here,  we'd  give  you 
and  Mademoiselle  Berthe  enough  room  on  the  ship  for  a  bar- 
racks, if  you'd  only  come.  There's  a  many  less  welcome," 
and  he  jerked  his  head  toward  a  stream  of  vehicles  straggling 
among  the  troops.  They  were  filled  with  Mexican  aristocrats 
whose  doubtful  titles  had  been  revived  by  the  Empire,  all 
eagerly  accepting  French  transport  out  of  their  native  land. 

Jacqueline  laughed.  "They're  so  afraid  of  the  Liberals, 
they  will  forget  their  escutcheons.  So  of  course  they've  for- 
gotten the  bouquets.  You  should  have  seen  the  garlands, 


Alone  Among  His  Loving  Subjects          353 

Michel,  that  heralded  our  grand  entry  here.  Oh,  la-la!  We 
paid  for  them  ourselves.  Thus  arrived  the  Drapeau  Civiliza- 
teur  de  la  France.  And  now  behold  the  departure.  Not  the 
cost  of  a  violet  to  spare  from  Napoleon's  strong  chest!  He 
mais,  hear  that  tune!  It's  'Leaving  for  Syria,'  the  thing 
decreed  into  our  national  hymn.  For  once  I'm  glad,  glad  it's 
not  the  '  Marseillaise. ' ' 

"Mademoiselle — dear  friend,"  spoke  the  slow- thinking 
Michel,  "you  do  not  wish  to  answer  my  question.  Why  do 
you  stay  behind,  alone?  Why?  Nothing  good  ever  happens 
to  anyone  in  this  country,  and  who  can  tell  what  might  happen 
to  you  when  the  army  is  gone?  Come  now,"  he  went  on, 
forcing  some  bluff  cheer  into  his  words,  "Jeanne  d'Aumerle, 
your  friends  want  you  out  of  it.  Fall  in  with  us,  here,  now. 
Let  me  give  the  order,  'Cocher,  a  Paris! — Voila,  what  more's 
to  be  done?" 

Indeed,  what  more  simple?  Or  more  to  be  desired?  Yet 
there  was  nothing  she  desired  less.  She  thought  of  what  she 
had  found  in  Mexico,  and  must  leave  behind.  It  was  a  dead 
thing,  true,  and  already  buried.  But — the  grave  was  too  fresh 
as  yet.  However,  the  real  reason  for  her  staying  involved 
something  else. 

She  made  no  reply,  for  at  the  moment  a  strange  voice,  with 
a  jagged  Mexican  accent  and  a  thin  insidious  inflection,  broke 
in  upon  them,  and  startled  them  all  three. 

"Nay,  Monsieur  le  Due,"  it  began,  rolling  the  title  as  a 
morsel  on  the  tongue.  "Your  Grace  would  deprive  us  of  too 
much  honor.  Why,  indeed,  should  mademoiselle  not  remain 
among  us?" 

Turning  quickly,  Jacqueline  beheld  the  stranger's  black 
eyes  upon  herself.  He,  too,  wished  to  know  why  she  stayed 
in  Mexico,  but  in  his  sharp,  shifting  look  there  was  a  penetra- 
tion quite  different  from  that  of  the  guileless  Michel.  He 
bestrode  a  magnificent  horse  that  seemed  made  for  armor, 


354  The  Missourian 

whereas  he  himself  would  surely  have  been  crushed  under  so 
much  as  a  Crusader's  buckler.  Being  so  very  small,  and 
perched  so  very  high,  he  cut  a  ludicrously  martial  figure  with 
his  plumed  hat  and  epaulettes  and  gold  buttons  and  braid  and 
medals  and  exquisitely  mounted  sabre.  It  was  not  a  French 
uniform  that  he  wore,  but  Mexican  Imperial,  and  stupendously 
ornate.  And  within  the  brave  array,  he  was  such  a  little, 
little  man! — insignificance  glorified  into  caricature. 

But  the  pigmy  was  not  altogether  on  parade.  He  had  that 
morning  been  receiving  arsenals  and  fortresses  from  the 
French;  in  short,  the  keys  of  the  Empire.  For  he  was  Com- 
mander in  Chief  of  the  Imperial  armies,  was  this  species  of 
manikin.  And  ugly  ?  He  was  a  man  .of  lifted  upper  lip  under 
a  bristling  moustache,  a  man  of  fangs,  a  wee,  snarling,  strut- 
ting, odious  creature  of  a  man.  A  deep  livid  scar  split  his  cheek 
and  would  not  heal.  Instead  of  arousing  sympathy,  it  pro- 
claimed him  rather  for  the  scratches  he  gave  to  others.  For 
he  was  that  Mexican  of  infamous  name,  the  Leopard.  Once 
he  had  looted  the  British  Legation.  Another  time  he  massa- 
cred young  medical  students  attending  the  wounded  of  both 
sides.  There  were  stories  of  children  speared  and  tossed  in 
ditches.  Yet  certain  priests  blessed  his  ardor  as  defender  of  the 
Church.  Maximilian  had  sent  him  on  a  mission  to  Palestine, 
since  he  was  abhorrent  to  the  moderates.  But  now  he  was 
back  again,  to  lead  the  clerical  armies.  The  valley  of  Mexico 
shrank  from  his  brutal  proclamation  demanding  submission. 
"Mexicans,  you  know  me!"  so  ended  the  snarl.  He  gathered 
forced  loans.  He  drafted  peons,  though  they  were  exempt. 
He  emptied  the  prisons,  and  convicts  he  sent  in  chains  as 
recruits  for  the  Imperial  garrisons.  In  such  a  fashion  Leonardo 
Marquez  began  his  duties  as  generalisimo  of  the  Empire. 

"Your  Excellency  is  most  kind,"  said  Jacqueline,  for  no 
other  reason  than  to  annoy  him  by  changing  from  French  into 
his  own  language. 


Alone  Among  His  Loving  Subjects          355 

"On  the  contrary,"  returned  Marquez,  "I  am  flattered  that 
you  will  be  here  to  observe  how  we,  alone,  shall  crush  the 
rebels.  Your  countrymen,  senorita,  happily  leave  plenty  of 
them.  But  I  cannot  believe  that  this  is  why  you  remain." 

"Make  her  tell  you,  then,"  interposed  the  helpless  Ney. 
He  was  utterly  at  sea.  There  was  a  trial  of  strength  on  between 
these  two,  but  how*  or  for  what  was  quite  beyond  him, 

Jacqueline  pushed  back  the  Persian  shawl  she  wore — this 
fifth  day  of  February  was  the  Mexican  springtime — and  settled 
herself  to  the  contest  in  earnest.  "I  fear,"  she  began  slowly, 
"that  my  motive  in  staying  can  hardly  be  intelligible,  unless, 
perhaps,  Your  Excellency  knows  why  I  came  to  Mexico  in  the 
first  place.  No  senor,  that  blank  smile  of  yours  will  not  serve. 
Your  Excellency  cannot  feign  ignorance  of  public  gossip." 

"Of  course,  I  have  heard  that " 

"To  be  sure  you  have,"  she  returned  dryly,  "and  you  might 
add  that  I  failed,  since  Maximilian  has  not  yet  abdicated.  But 
Your  Excellency  is  not  one  to  imagine  that  the  end  can  be  long 
delayed." 

She,  too,  was  searching  for  a  motive,  his  motive  in  the  inter- 
view. 

"The  Mexicans  alone  will  sustain  our  patriotic  ruler," 
stoutly  declared  the  generalisimo.  "  But  let  us  suppose,  merely 
for  pastime,  that  His  Majesty  does  abdicate.  What  then? 
What  profit  to  France,  since  at  this  moment,  before  our  eyes, 
her  army  is  leaving?" 

Jacqueline  smoothed  the  ruffled  pleats  on  her  full  gray 
skirt.  They  looked  like  an  exaggerated  railroad  on  a  map, 
and  doubtless  needed  smoothing. 

"And  remotely  supposing,"  she  said,  "that  our  army  might 
come  back  again?" 

Then,  in  a  flash,  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  surprised  the  start 
he  gave.  But  she  laughed  at  once,  and  at  him,  for  taking  her 
nonsense  as  serious. 


356  The  Missourian 

"No,"  she  exclaimed,  "Your  Excellency  can  more  easily 
recall  Santa  Anna  from  his  island  exile." 

This,  too,  was  nonsense,  or  so  he  was  forced  to  consider  it. 
But  knowing  that  the  Empire  could  not  endure,  he  was  be- 
lieved even  then  to  be  negotiating  with  the  rich  former  dic- 
tator. In  his  scowl  Jacqueline  discovered  what  she  sought. 
He  wanted,  in  brief,  to  negotiate  with  Napoleon  also,  and  he 
wanted  to  negotiate  through  her.  Napoleon  could  bid  higher 
than  Santa  Anna.  She  saw,  moreover,  what  was  worrying  the 
traitor.  If  Napoleon  did  not  mean  to  bid,  why  then  was  she 
staying  in  Mexico? 

Marquez  glanced  fretfully  at  Ney  and  Berthe.  If  he  might 
be  honored  in  the  privilege  of  calling  to  pay  his  respects  ? 

But  Jacqueline  regretted  that  she  was  to  be  too  much  occu- 
pied in  preparations  for  her  own  early  departure.  And  that 
very  evening  she  sent  a  note  to  Maximilian,  frankly  warning 
him  against  the  Leopard.  But  she  warned  His  Majesty 
farther,  that  if  he  did  not  heed,  that  when  it  should  be  too  late 
to  save  him  in  any  case,  and  Marquez  still  had  something  to 
sell,  that  then  she  would  advise  her  own  emperor,  should  her 
own  emperor  wish  to  buy.  Hoping,  though,  for  the  best,  she 
sent  by  Ney  a  message  to  Bazaine  at  the  head  of  the  column, 
suggesting  that  he  delay  embarkation  as  long  as  possible.  She 
had  in  mind  Maximilian  awakened  to  the  faithlessness  of  his 
chief  support  and  wishing  to  overtake  the  French  troops. 

For  which  it  appears  that  Jacqueline  still  wielded  a  free 
lance,  belonging  to  her  own  country  alone  and  owning  no  mas- 
ter other  than  her  own  conscience. 

As  Bazaine  at  the  army's  head  rode  through  the  Zocalo,  he 
looked  up  to  find  the  palatial  shutters  closed.  The  Mexican 
Empire  was  sulking  like  a  spiteful  child.  The  marshal  wearily 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  thought  on  the  ingratitude  of 
princes.  But  the  silence  of  the  Palace  was  only  a  pose,  mean 
and  despicable.  Maximilian  himself  was  peeping  through  the 


Alone  Among  His  Loving  Subjects          357 

shutters  down  upon  the  gallant,  moving  sea  of  color.  It  was  a 
stream  of  gleaming  bayonets,  of  champing  horses,  of  lumbering 
artillery.  His  eyes  would  single  out  and  cling  to  this  or  that 
figure  till  it  was  lost  in  the  street  beyond,  and  then  he  would 
try  to  realize  that  it  was  lost  to  him  forever.  For  the  street 
beyond  lay  toward  the  coast,  where  many  ships  awaited.  The 
archducal  petulance  gave  way  to  vague  melancholy. 

Finally  he  looked  upon  the  last  swinging  foot,  then  at  the 
dust  settling.  Below,  in  the  Zocalo,  what  had  been  a  fringe 
of  mourning  around  the  troops,  became  a  scurrying  of  human 
creatures.  They  were  his  subjects.  Not  a  French  uniform 
remained,  but  the  prince  sighed  heavily  as  he  turned  from  his 
ignoble  peep-hole.  Courtiers  and  counselors  glanced  at  each 
other  significantly.  By  tacit  consent  one  among  them  spoke. 

"Free  at  last,  sire,  free  at  last!  Ah,  see  them,  there  below. 
They  know  then*  shackles  are  broken,  they  know  that  the  for- 
eign invader  who  chilled  their  allegiance  is  gone.  Nay  more, 
their  loyalty  has  already  borne  fruit.  In  the  north,  sire " 

"How,  father?    You  do  not  mean " 

"Yes,  sire,  yes,  the  mother  of  God  be  praised!  I  mean  vic- 
tory, and  death  to  many  traitors.  The  news  has  just  come. 
Miramon  has  won  a  decisive  battle  and  taken  Zacatecas." 

"Zacatecas!    But  Juarez  was  there?" 

"Yes,  sire,  and  Miramon  entered  so  suddenly  the  arch  rebel 
surely  could  not  have  escaped." 

"Juarez  taken,  that  man  taken!" 

"Even  so,  sire,  And  " — Fischer's  interlaced  fingers  tightened 
until  the  veins  grew  large — "and,  it  only  remains  for  Your 
Majesty  to  dispose  of  him,  according  to  the  law." 

Maximilian  trembled  with  joy.  He  was  master  of  the  situa- 
tion. His  people  had  made  him  master.  Here  was  divine 
right  vindicated.  It  was — Destiny!  He  had  but  to  follow 
whither  the  heavenly  finger  pointed.  And  in  rapture,  he  seized 
his  pen. 


358  The  Missourian 

My  <Lar  General  Miramon:  PALACE  OF  MEXICO,  Feb.  5th,  1867. 

I  charge  you  particularly,  in  case  you  do  capture  Don  Benito  Juarez,  Don  Sebas- 
tian Lerdo  de  Tejado,  and  others  of  his  suite,  to  have  them  tried  and  condemned 
by  a  council  of  war  .  .  .  but  the  sentence  is  not  to  be  executed  before  receiving 

Our  approbation.     ...  ,,          „  ,.. 

Your  affectionate  MAXIMILIANO. 

Bazaine  and  the  French  camped  the  first  night,  the  next  day, 
and  yet  another  night  outside  the  City,  waiting.  They  did 
not  reach  Puebla  until  the  tenth.  The  rear  guard  fell  farther 
and  farther  behind,  keeping  the  road  open.  At  last  there  was 
news.  Juarez  had  escaped  Miramon  at  Zacatecas,  warned 
in  time  through  some  mysterious  agency.  And  farther, 
Miramon  had  encountered  another  Republican  army,  by  whom 
he  was  not  only  defeated,  but  routed  completely.  In  panic 
he  was  fleeing  to  Quere*tero. 

"Maximilian  must  surely  abdicate  now,"  thought  Bazaine, 
and  he  sent  back  a  message.  "I  can,"  he  wrote,  "yet  extend  a 
hand  to  His  Majesty  to  help  him  retire." 

In  Vera  Cruz  the  marshal  waited  for  an  answer.  Day  after 
day  passed,  and  then  the  answer  came.  Too  late,  was  its 
refrain.  Maximilian  had  left  his  capital  with  what  troops  he 
could  spare.  He  had  left  for  Queretero,  to  join  Miramon 
there. 

Bazaine,  the  last  to  quit  the  shore,  climbed  aboard  his  ship, 
and  taking  one  final  look  for  a  chance  horseman  with  word  to 
wait  yet  longer,  and  seeing  none,  gave  the  order  to  weigh 
anchor. 


CHAPTER  XI 

FATALITY  AND  THE  MISSOURIAN 

"Si  debbe  ai  col  pi  della  sua  fortuna 
Voltar  il  viso  di  lagrime  asciutto." 

— Mac  h  iavelli. 

THE  mountain  villages  were  arming.  Bronzed  men,  savagely 
joyful,  poured  from  under  roofs  of  thatch,  strapping  on  great 
black  lead- weighted  belts.  In  the  corrals  others  lassoed  horses. 
It  looked  like  a  sudden  changing  from  peaceful  highland  domes- 
ticity, as  the  clans  of  Scotland  or  the  cantons  of  Helvetia  might 
gather.  But  these  men  were  not  rising  to  defend  their  homes. 
The  hamlets  clustered  among  the  crags  were  their  barracks, 
nothing  more.  The  wildest  canons  of  the  Sierra  Madre  del 
Sur,  far  away  in  the  rocky  southwestern  corner  of  the  con- 
tinent, were  only  their  camping  grounds,  their  refuge.  To 
be  armed  was  their  natural  state.  They  were  fighters  by 
occupation.  They  were  an  army.  Unceasing  hardship  and 
constant  peril  had  seasoned  them,  and  then:  discipline  was 
perfect,  unconscious,  because  it  came  from  the  herding  instinct 
of  wolves.  During  years  they  had  waged  war  against  a  ruthless 
foe,  and  they,  too,  were  relentless.  The  penalty  of  defeat  was 
massacre. 

The  foe  of  this  army  was  a  greater  army,  and  between  the 
two  it  was  a  duel  of  chieftains,  of  General  Rdgules  in  the  Sierra, 
of  General  Mendez  on  the  plain.  Deadlier  antagonists  might 
not  be  imagined.  Mendez,  he  who  had  shot  two  Republican 
generals  under  the  Black  Decree,  was  above  all  men  the  likeliest 
to  hold  stubborn  Michoacan  for  the  Empire.  But  even  he 
failed,  because  the  man  against  him  was  not  less  a  man  than 

359 


360  The  Missourian 

he,  because  also  the  spark  of  resistance  to  sceptre  and  crosier 
never  dies  out  in  Michoacan. 

The  man  as  good  as  he  was  Re*gules.  A  Spaniard,  Regules 
had  fought  with  the  Catholic  Don  Carlos.  And  now,  he  was 
suffering  for  Mexican  Liberals  the  most  that  any  general  can 
suffer,  defeat  after  defeat,  and  sometimes  annihilation.  But 
he  was  a  Marion,  a  Fabius.  He  knew  the  mountain  recesses 
as  no  one  else,  even  better  than  Mendez,  who  was  born  among 
them,  and  here  he  would  gather  fugitives,  draft  every  straggler, 
until  in  time  he  sallied  forth  again  to  badger  his  arch  enemy. 
He  hoped  only  to  exist  till  that  day  when  the  French  should 
leave  Empire  and  Republic  face  to  face,  on  equal  terms.  It 
had  taken  tenacious  faith  and  gloomy  years,  but  the  day  came 
at  last.  The  news  sifted  through  defile  and  gorge.  The 
invader  had  embarked  for  Toulon.  Nearer  at  hand  Mendez 
had  evacuated  Morelia,  and  was  marching  to  Queretero. 
And  at  Queretero  was  Miramon,  driven  there  from  the  north 
by  Escobedo.  At  Queretero  was  the  Emperor — was  the 
Empire,  desperate,  ferocious,  an  animal  at  bay.  Out  boldly 
upon  the  plain,  then!  But  no  longer  as  a  slinking  guerrilla 
horde!  As  an  army  rather,  with  thrilling  bugles  and  the  Mex- 
ican eagle  aloft,  and  regiment  numbers  in  gold  on  pennons 
of  brightest  red!  For  the  Empire  was  the  hunted  mad-dog 
now,  and  the  dignified  host  was  the  Republic.  The  barracks 
of  the  Sierra  were  arming. 

In  one  of  the  corrals  an  officer  of  cavalry  was  quelling  insub- 
ordination with  soft  words.  But  the  mutineers,  not  knowing 
their  man,  did  not  fathom  the  dangerous  sweetness  of  his  tone. 
They  were  deserters  from  Mendez,  come  that  morning,  and 
as  they  had  horses,  were  foisted  on  the  officer's  splendid  troop. 
But  like  the  native  infantry,  they  insisted  that  their  women, 
the  soldaderas,  should  go  with  them  on  what  was  to  be  a  swift 
march  to  Querdtero.  Having  brought  useful  information 
concerning  Mendez,  they  were  insolent  in  their  demands. 


Fatality  and  the  Missourian  36i 

"Now,  muchachos,"  said  the  officer  of  cavalry,  "you  see 
how  absurd  it  is,  so  quiet  down.  The  women  can  follow  later." 

"A  Gringo  to  dictate  to  us,  bless  me  the  saints!  Us,  free 
Mexicans,  and  Republicans!"  And  the  ringleader  drew  his 
machete  and  rushed  on  the  officer. 

The  Gringo  smiled,  in  a  way  that  a  man  rarely  smiles.  His 
eyes  opened  in  mild  surprise,  and  as  the  mutineers  looked  to 
see  his  head  roll  from  his  shoulders,  he  was  still  smiling  in  that 
poisonously  sweet  way.  Perhaps  there  passed  across  his  face 
just  the  shadow  of  pity  or  of  revulsion,  but  none  might  say  for 
certain,  because  of  a  pistol's  flash  that  came  so  quickly  after. 
With  the  report  the  assailant  plunged  headlong,  and  on  the 
ground  seemed  to  shrivel  in  his  rags.  Behind  the  smoke  the 
officer  was  carelessly  holding  a  large  black  revolver,  no  higher 
than  his  hip. 

"Because,"  he  added,  "it's  not  a  woman's  game." 

Then  he  thrust  the  weapon  back  under  his  ribs  and  saun- 
tered away.  The  mutineers  gaped  in  trembling  at  his  back. 
When  they  picked  up  the  ringleader,  they  saw  that  his  fingers 
had  been  neatly  clipped  at  the  hilt  of  the  machete. 

The  cavalry  officer  was  Driscoll — but  changed!  He  was 
changed  as  bland  Mephisto  would  change  a  man,  if  the  mate- 
rial were  adaptable  and  Mephisto  an  artist.  Such  exquisite 
gentleness  in  peril  and  in  slaying  could  be  no  other  than  the 
devil's  own,  and  in  the  most  devilishly  artistic  mood  of  that 
suave  dilettante. 

It  was  natural  that  any  man  should  color  somewhat  into  a 
desperado,  considering  such  an  existence  among  those  Sierras, 
but  Driscoll  was  a  desperado  refined  by  cynicism.  And  yet 
there  was  still  naught  of  self-consciousness  in  it  all.  The 
change  had  not  been  abrupt,  but  gradual,  as  a  growing  into 
maturity.  The  roughened  native  instincts  of  a  gentleman  had 
sobered  from  Quixotic  impulses  into  a  diabolic  calm.  His 
bravery  was  turned  to  cool  and  almost  supernatural  self 


362  The  Missourian 

possession,  mocked  withal  by  gentleness.  And  yet  he  was  not 
a  villain.  To  the  mutineers,  to  those  who  beheld  his  smile,  he 
seemed  a  fiend.  But  his  horse  knew  no  change  in  him,  which 
was  significant.  Something  had  gone  wrong,  that  was  all. 
The  young  man  who  had  looked  out  on  the  world,  half  chal- 
lenging, half  expectant,  must  have  seen  too  suddenly  that  part 
of  life  which  is"unlovely.  However,  the  thing  may  not  be  thus 
easily  explained.  The  soul  of  a  man,  when  bent  or  distorted 
under  stress,  is  a  weird  and  fearful  growth.  One  may  con- 
template it  in  awe;  but  understand  it,  never. 

More  than  a  year  before,  when  Driscoll  changed  sides,  he 
was  embarrassed  to  find  a  side  to  change  to,  so  thoroughly  had 
the  Empire  swept  away  all  vestiges  of  the  Liberal  strength. 
But  on  achieving  that  farewell  of  his  to  Mendez,  he  rode  happily 
southward,  with  some  vague  notion  of  tracking  the  Republic 
into  Michoacan.  The  first  night  he  slept  under  the  stars  mid 
tunas  and  Spanish  daggers,  and  when  he  awoke  it  was  to  find 
a  strange  Indito  squatting  patiently  at  his  feet.  He  sat  up  and 
rubbed  his  eyes  at  what  might  have  been  a  Hindoo  image, 
except  that  it  doffed  a  straw  sombrero. 

"Y'r  Mercy  is  awake?"  queried  the  idol. 

"N-o,  but  it  will  probably  not  be  long  now.  Who  in 
thunder  are  you?" 

The  Indito  explained,  and  Driscoll  covered  his  knees  with 
his  hands,  and  stared  and  grew  more  astounded.  The  ragged 
fellow  said  that  he  had  escaped  from  Mendez's  camp  by  squirm- 
ing on  his  belly  through  the  cacti,  and  he  had  followed  the 
American  senor,  on  foot.  He  was,  he  added,  a  Republican 
spy. 

Driscoll  mechanically  drew  his  pistol,  but  recalled  that  now 
he  also  was  Republican. 

"But  why  follow  me?"  he  demanded. 

"I  was  sent  to  watch  only  Y'r  Mercy,  Y'r  Mercy's  thousand 
pardons." 


Fatality  and  the  Missourian  363 

"The  devil!" 

"And  with  Y'r  Mercy's  permission,  I  was  to  kill  Y'r  Mercy 
at  the  first  chance.  But  since  Y'r  Mercy  has  changed  sides " 

"Now  look  here,  who — who  put  you  up  to  this  business,  I 
want  to  know?" 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  only  knew  that  a 
senor  chaparro  had  sent  him. 

"A  short  senor?"  Driscoll  repeated.  "Then  we  might  call 
you  a  Shorter  Yet,  and  maybe  you  know  where  this  Republica 
is  hiding  out?" 

The  Indito  brightened.  "That's  why  I'm  here,  senor.  I'll 
take  Y'r  Mercy  to  the  Citizen  General  Re"gules." 

At  the  name  Driscoll  frowned  involuntarily,  but  laughed 
as  he  again  remembered  that  he  no  longer  shared  the  Imperialist 
hates. 

" Re"gules ? "  he  repeated.  "But  we  all  thought  he  was  dead, 
since  the  last  time  we  scoured  his  mountains." 

"That  the  Virgin  would  have  let  me  kill  Y'r  Mercy  before 
then!"  said  the  Indito  regretfully.  "But  no  matter,  Y'r 
Mercy  will  discover  that  the  citizen  general  is  still  alive." 

And  so  he  was.  They  found  him  in  the  wildest  of  the  wild 
region  of  the  Sierra  Madre  del  Sur,  far  away  beyond  the  Rio 
de  las  Balsas,  beyond  Michoacan,  in  the  impassable  tierra 
caliente  of  the  Pacific  slope.  The  Indians  here  were  the 
Pintos,  who  knew  naught  of  the  world  outside,  and  owned 
allegiance  to  none  but  a  grizzly  old  dictator,  royally  described 
as  the  Panther  of  the  South.  One  thing  was  certain,  the 
Empire  could  never  follow  Rdgules  to  the  fever  and  ambush 
of  the  Panther's  marshy  realm,  and  R^gules  was  hard  pressed 
indeed  when  he  sought  such  protection.  But  he  was  there 
now,  in  that  last  refuge  of  Liberalism,  alone,  wounded,  fever 
stricken,  emaciated,  but  undaunted.  Driscoll  found  him  so, 
and  became  his  first  recruit. 

For  the  moment  Re"gules  had  no  army,  but  armies  were  only 


364  The  Missourian 

weapons  brandished  by  the  real  principals  in  the  duel.  Over 
battle  and  rout  and  slaughter  the  two  chiefs  would  glare  each 
at  the  other,  blade  in  hand  and  panting,  but  either  ever  ready 
for  the  stroke  that  should  thrust  through  the  army  to  the  heart 
of  its  general.  Such  a  struggle  needed  only  antiquity  and  a 
bard  to  be  Homeric.  No  Greek  could  equal  either  champion 
in  cunning,  nor  Trojan  in  prowess,  nor  both  in  grim  persistence 
and  rugged  hate.  It  was  truly  a  fight  to  have  a  hand  in,  and 
with  big,  lusty  zest,  the  Storm  Centre  bounded  into  the  lists. 
He  leaped  backward  into  the  age  of  colossal,  naked  emotions, 
which  strove  as  great  veined  giants  with  a  rude  splendor  that 
was  barbaric.  It  was  the  grandeur  of  primeval  man,  of 
majesty  resting  on  him  who  fought  best.  After  a  thousand 
years  of  roof  and  tableware  a  man  may  be  no  longer  primeval, 
but  he  is  no  longer  quite  a  man  either  if  his  primeval  state  does 
not  sometimes  appeal  to  him.  As  for  the  young  Missourian, 
he  was  enthralled. 

During  that  winter,  the  Spaniard  and  the  American  were  a 
recruiting  squad  of  two,  picking  up  the  seeds  of  rebellion  among 
the  fertile  rocks.  The  vago,  or  poor  Indito,  was  drafted  wher- 
ever caught.  Guerrilla  fugitives  rejoined  their  leader.  The 
little  band  grew  slowly,  but  in  appearance  merited  Mendez's 
contemptuous  epithet  of  brigand  thieves.  Fluttering  yellow 
rags  revealed  only  leathery-hided  bones.  Sandals  sloughed 
away.  There  were  a  few  machetes,  and  one  or  two  venerable 
musketoons.  But  the  commoner  weapon  was  a  heavy  wooden 
staff,  used  for  trudging  up  the  steep  paths.  Imagine  a  Mexican 
abandoning  his  horse!  But  pursuers  often  tracked  "the  bri- 
gand thieves"  by  their  mounts  dying  here  and  there — 
a  pitiful  blazed  trail.  And  their  exhausted  riders  often 
lay  down  as  well,  and  would  not  rise,  though  Re'gules  lashed 
them,  though  the  terrible  Mendez  followed  close  behind.  If 
at  this  time  the  Republic  compared  its  conditions  with  the 
tapestried  court  in  Mexico,  then  hope  of  success  must  have 


Fatality  and  the  Missourian  365 

seemed  lugubrious  irony.  Yet  there  was  the  watchword  still, 
"Viva  la  Intervencidn  del  Norte!"  Re"gules  looked  to  the 
United  States  to  drive  away  the  French.  Driscoll's  face  would 
twist  to  a  grimace.  It  was  a  peculiar  position  for  an  ex- 
Confederate. 

The  Republicans  in  Michoacan  were  cut  off  from  all  outside 
help,  while  those  along  the  Rio  Grande  drew  from  the  friendly 
Americans  in  Texas  much  aid  and  comfort.  Driscoll  pon- 
dered on  this,  until  in  June  he  got  leave  to  go  to  the  Cordova 
colony  and  there  enlist,  if  possible,  his  old  comrades  of  Shel- 
by's brigade.  The  result  is  known.  After  the  affair  at  Tam- 
pico,  he  came  back  with  a  troop  of  colonels.  They  were  the 
nucleus  of  a  cavalry  which  he  loved  more  than  Demijohn,  more 
than  his  ugly  pistols,  more  than  his  pipe. 

It  was  a  grim  affection  that  Driscoll  bore  his  regiment  of 
horse.  He  was  no  longer  the  same  man  as  when  he  left.  He 
returned  from  Cordova  with  a  mood  on  him,  which  settled 
more  and  more  heavily  as  he  nursed  his  troops  into  a  splendid 
fighting  machine.  There  was  a  dangerously  quiet  exultation 
in  the  patience  with  which  he  built  the  regiment  up  to  full 
strength  and  trained  it  into  the  power  of  a  brigade.  He  did 
wonders  through  the  idea,  pleasantly  instilled,  that  much  of  the 
fun  of  fighting  lies  in  the  winning,  and  he  demolished,  as  an 
absurd  fetich,  the  idea  that  the  hunted  men  of  Re"gules  were 
doomed  never  to  win. 

Thus  he  labored  with  the  Indites,  his  terrible  little  fatalists 
in  combat.  There  were  enough  to  choose  from,  since  by  now 
the  tide  of  desertion  was  changing  toward  the  Republic.  The 
problem  of  mounts  in  time  solved  itself.  The  French  began 
selling  their  horses  rather  than  transport  them  back  to  Europe, 
and  these  being  declared  contraband  of  war  by  the  Liberal 
government,  were  complacently  taken  away  from  their  owners 
without  even  Juarez  script  in  payment.  The  question  of  arms 
proved  more  troublesome,  but  the  answer  at  last  was  even  more 


366  The  Missourian 

satisfactory.  For  the  besieged  at  Que*retero,  Driscoll's  troop 
later  became  some  unfamiliar  dragon  hissing  an  incessant 
flame  of  poisonous  breath.  This  was  due  to  a  strange  and 
mystical  weapon  which  not  only  carried  a  ball  farther  than 
any  rifle  known  before,  but  sixteen  of  them,  one  after  the  other. 
The  strange  and  mystical  weapon  multiplied  a  lone  man  into 
a  very  genii  of  death,  until  the  Missourian's  twelve  hundred 
were  more  to  be  dreaded  than  many  battalions. 

The  repeating  rifles,  it  may  be  explained,  formed  a  part  of 
the  cache  which  General  Shelby  had  made  on  crossing  into 
Mexico.  He  had  taken  them,  among  other  things,  from  the 
Confederate  depositories  in  Texas.  Driscoll  knew  of  the  cache 
through  Boone,  and  by  infinite  patience  had  it  brought  into 
Michoacan.  A  solitary  Indito  journeyed  eight  hundred  miles 
unnoticed  with  some  seeming  fragments  of  scrap  iron.  Other 
vagos  were  in  front  of  him.  Others  followed.  And  these 
passed  yet  others,  empty  handed,  trudging  in  the  opposite 
direction.  So  an  arsenal  came  to  the  Sierra  Madre  del  Sur  all 
the  way  from  the  Rio  Grande,  and  each  and  every  cavalier, 
whether  miserable  ranchero  or  veteran  Missourian,  became 
an  engine  of  destruction,  good  for  a  fusillade  of  forty  shots 
without  the  biting  of  a  cartridge,  for  sixteen  from  his  rifle,  for 
six  from  each  of  his  revolvers,  and  after  these,  good  for  terrific 
in-fighting  with  his  dragoon  sabre.  It  was  no  marvel  that 
Driscoll  loved  such  a  troop,  but  the  wonder  lay  in  his  smile, 
soft  and  purring  and  far-away,  as  he  stroked  his  murderous 
darling. 

Colonel  Daniel  Boone,  chief  of  scouts,  was  harassed  nearly  to 
insomnia  over  the  change  in  his  friend.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
mystery  there  must  be  inspiration  for  a  glowing  line,  and  with 
pen  ready  poised  over  the  violet  fluid  of  romance,  it  was  dis- 
heartening to  have  the  solution  elude  him.  He  proposed  clues 
as  a  poet  tests  rhymes.  There  was  vendetta.  There  was 
blighted  passion.  But  he  ruefully  discarded  both.  Either 


Fatality  and  the  Missourian  367 

would  be  marked  by  violent  growth,  while  this  thing  that 
touched  the  Storm  Centre  formed  as  slowly  as  the  gravity  of 
wisdom.  But  what  baffled  most  was  that  Driscoll  himself 
was  completely  oblivious.  If  he  knew  nothing  of  the  effect, 
how  then  could  one  ask  him  about  the  cause  ? 

Daniel,  however,  overlooked  the  fact  that  a  malady  may 
break  out  variously,  according  to  temperament.  As  an  instance 
Daniel's  patient  would  lose  himself  in  reverie,  long  and  deep 
and  mellowing.  Now  he  was  riding  with  a  girl  whose  gray 
eyes  were  upon  him  in  that  pensive  way  she  had ;  or  rather,  in 
the  pensive  way  of  a  girl  who  finds  herself  in  love,  and  won- 
dering at  it,  seeks  to  learn  the  reason  through  a  grave  scrutiny 
of  the  object.  It  seemed  very  good  to  be  riding  with  her 
again  like  that,  for  there  was  a  soothing  sense  of  companion- 
ship, of  dear  cameraderie  that  needed  no  words,  but  only  that 
expression  of  her  mouth  and  a  pair  of  gray  eyes.  The  day 
dream,  while  it  lasted,  had  nothing  of  bitterness,  but  lulled  his 
soul  instead,  and  when  it  passed,  he  would  be  left  with  thank- 
fulness for  his  moment  of  fleeting  bliss  and  ineffable  comfort. 
Or  again,  he  awoke  to  reality  with  a  longing  that  fiercely  would 
not  be  denied.  "Oh,  I  want — Jack'leen!"  Often  and  often 
the  imperious  smothered  cry  all  but  passed  his  lips.  And  then 
he  would  shake  himself,  as  out  of  physical  slumber,  and  he 
would  take  up  his  life  again.  But  he  would  be  a  shade  deeper 
in  the  devil's  own  mood,  of  gentleness  and  a  smile. 

After  Cuernavaca  Driscoll  had  brooded  somewhat,  yet 
rather  as  a  boy  whose  melancholy  is  callow  and  easily  fades. 
But  during  that  evening  in  Boone's  cabin,  he  had  changed  to 
a  man,  for  it  was  then  he  came  to  know  the  meaning  of  pos- 
session, and  in  the  same  moment  he  learned  the  meaning  of 
loss.  A  dull  and  indefinable  resentment  thereafter  grew  on 
him.  But  against  whom?  Against  no  one,  perhaps.  Yet 
he  had  had  a  vision  of  his  life's  dearest  happiness,  and  it  was 
gone,  that  vision,  beyond  recall. 


368  The   Missourian 

Ignorant  as  he  was  of  Jacqueline's  mission,  Driscoll  had 
but  one  explanation.  A  man  had  been  born  a  prince,  and  a 
prince  dazzles  a  woman.  Yet  the  rankling  in  him  was  neither 
because  of  the  prince,  nor  because  of  the  woman.  It  was 
much  more  hopeless  than  that.  It  was  because  a  man  could 
be  born  a  prince  at  all.  Something  was  out  of  harmony  in 
the  world.  The  irony  of  it  made  him  grim,  and  to  his  sense 
of  humor  that  such  things  could  be  came  the  smile.  A  prince 
in  the  New  World  and  in  the  Nineteenth  Century! — Now  here 
was  as  incongruous  a  juxtaposition  as  a  bull  in  a  crockery  shop. 
And  the  result  ? — A  people  robbed  of  their  dignity  as  men ;  a 
spike  among  the  cogs,  and  the  machinery  everywhere  grinding 
discordantly.  For  the  pilfered  people,  however,  the  matter 
could  be  righted,  and  Driscoll  felt  his  vague  wrath  as  one  with 
theirs.  Together  they  would  drive  the  bull  from  the  shop. 
The  Mexicans  could  later  repair  their  crockery.  But  as  to  his 
own  precious  little  bit  of  bric-a-brac,  that  was  shattered 
beyond  hope.  His  only  balm  was  to  help  the  other  sufferers. 
His  only  resentment  was  against  fatality.  But  to  pout  at 
fatality  is  such  a  foolish  business  that  he  smiled,  in  a  gentle- 
manly, sardonic  way.  Lucifer  himself  would  be  obsequious 
before  fatality.  And  as  for  presuming  to  chastise  it,  that  does 
indeed  require  the  devil's  own  mood. 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  RENDEZVOUS  or  THE  REPUBLIC 

"It  may  be  short,  it  may  be  long, 
'  "Tis  reckoning-day!'  sneers  unpaid  Wrong." 

— Lowell. 

IT  WAS  a  long  column  that  undulated  over  the  cacti  plain  with 
the  turnings  of  the  national  highway.  Men  and  horses  bent 
like  whitened  spectres  under  a  cloud  of  saltpetre  dust.  They 
burned  with  thirst,  and  had  burned  during  fifteen  days  of 
forced  marching  over  bad  roads.  They  kept  their  ranks  after 
the  manner  of  soldiers,  else  they  would  have  seemed  a  hurrying 
mob,  for  there  was  scant  boast  of  uniforms.  The  officers  wore 
shoulder  straps  of  green  or  yellow,  and  some  of  the  men  had 
old  military  caps,  high  and  black,  with  manta  flaps  protecting 
the  neck. 

Except  for  an  occasional  pair  of  guaraches,  or  sandals,  the 
infantry  trudged  barefoot,  little  leather-heeled  Mercuries  who 
cared  nothing  for  thorns.  Their  olive  faces,  running  with 
sweat,  were  for  the  most  part  typically  humble,  patient  under 
fatigue,  lethargic  before  peril.  Here  and  there  one  held  the 
hand  of  his  soldadera,  like  him  a  stoic  brown  creature,  who 
shared  his  hardships  that  she  might  be  near  to  grind  his  ration 
of  corn  into  tortillas.  Veterans  were  there  who  had  fought 
the  French  at  Puebla,  and  on  coarse  frayed  shirts  displayed 
their  heroes'  medals.  Some  among  them  had  meantime  served 
the  Empire,  and  had  lately  deserted  back  again — but  no  mat- 
ter. In  the  cavalry  there  were  those  who  on  a  time  had  ridden 
against  the  Americans  in  Santa  Anna's  famous  guard.  Now 

369 


37°  The  Missourian 

they  rode  with  Driscoll,  among  the  Missourians.    And  the 
Missourians  sang: 

"My  name  it  is  Joe  Bowers, 

And  I've  got  a  brother  Ike; 
I  come  from  old  Missouri, 
Yes,  all  the  way  from  Pike." 

Their  mouths  opened  wide  to  the  salty  dust,  and  they  roared 
with  great-lunged  humor,  the  stentor  note  of  Tall  Mose  Bledsoe 
— Colonel  Bledsoe  of  the  State  of  Pike — far  and  away  in  the  van 
of  the  chorus.  Even  the  Mexicans,  who  comprised  over  half 
the  regiment,  chanted  forth  the  tune.  They  had  heard  it  often 
enough,  and  thought  it  a  species  of  appropriate  national  hymn. 
Only  the  colonel  of  the  troop  rode  in  silence,  but  not  gloomily. 
This  playfulness  of  his  pet  before  a  snarl  was  music  that  he 
liked.  The  other  Missouri  colonels  (brevet)  were  as  boys  ever, 
were  still  only  Joe  Shelby's  "young  men  for  war."  There  was 
Colonel  Marmaduke  of  Platte.  There  was  Colonel  Crittenden 
of  Nodaway.  There  was  Colonel  Grinders  from  the  Ozarks. 
There  was  Colonel  Clay  of  Carroll,  and  Colonel  Carroll  of 
Clay.  These  were  captains.  Colonel  Bledsoe  was  a  major, 
and  so  was  Colonel  Boone,  also  chief  of  scouts.  Colonel  Clay- 
burn,  otherwise  the  "Doc"  of  Benton,  was  ranking  surgeon; 
while  the  chaplain,  lovingly  known  as  "Old  Brothers  and 
Sisters,"  and  the  choicest  fighter  among  them,  was  lieutenant- 
colonel. 

Of  course  some  of  the  four  or  five  hundred  colonels  had  to 
be  privates.  But  they  did  not  mind,  they  were  colonels  just 
the  same.  Which  provoked  complications,  especially  with  a 
Kansan  who  had  wandered  among  them  some  time  since.  The 
Kansan,  whose  name  was  Collins,  was  an  ex-Federal,  even  one 
of  their  ancient  and  warmest  enemies,  of  the  Sixth  Kansas  Cav- 
alry. And  being  a  mettlesome  young  man  into  the  bargain,  he 
rose  by  unanimous  consent  to  command  a  native  company  of 
the  troop.  But  Captain  Collins  found  it  hard  to  address  a 


The  Rendezvous  of  the  Republic  371 

Missouri  private  as  colonel,  and  to  be  addressed  by  the  Missouri 
private  as  an  inferior  in  rank.  A  sporadic  outburst  of  jay- 
hawker  warfare  generally  ensued.  But  according  to  the 
merger  treaty  between  the  Republic  of  Colonels  and  the 
Republica  Mexicana,  the  Missourian  was  strictly  in  his  rights. 
Besides,  both  needed  the  exercise,  and  after  the  business  of 
fists,  formality  dropped  of  itself.  Captain  Collins  thereupon 
became  "Harry;"  and  the  private  "Ben"  or  "Jim,"  or  what- 
ever else. 

Driscoll's  troop  wanted  for  nothing.  Regimentals,  luckily, 
were  not  considered  a  want.  But  in  replacing  worn-out 
slouch  hats  and  cape-coats,  the  Americans  set  an  approximate 
standard,  which  was  observed  also  by  their  fellow  troopers 
among  the  Mexicans.  They  were  able  to  procure  sombreros, 
wide-brimmed  and  high-peaked,  of  mouse-colored  beaver  with 
a  rope  of  silver.  The  officers  and  many  of  the  men  had  long 
Spanish  capas,  or  cloaks,  which  were  black  and  faced  in  gray 
velvet.  Their  coats  were  short  charro  jackets.  As  armor 
against  cacti,  they  either  had  "chaps"  or  trousers  "foxed"  over 
in  leather,  with  sometimes  a  Wild  Western  fringe.  They  came 
to  be  known  as  the  Gray  Troop,  or  the  Gringo  Grays.  The 
natives  themselves  were  proudest  of  the  latter  title. 

The  brigade  marched  as  victors,  but  they  remembered  how 
they  had  formerly  skulked  as  hunted  guerrillas,  and  also,  how 
Mendez  had  scourged  the  dissident  villages.  They  found 
bodies  hanging  to  trees.  At  Morelia  a  citizen  who  cried  "Viva 
la  Libertad!"  had  been  brained  with  a  sabre.  It  was  the  hour 
for  reprisals.  And  Re"gules  exacted  suffering  of  the  mocho,  or 
clerical,  towns  that  had  sheltered  the  "traitors."  Requisitions 
for  arms,  horses,  and  provisions  marked  his  path.  Deserters 
swelled  his  ranks.  He  had  enough  left-overs  from  the  evacua- 
tion to  organize  what  in  irony  he  called  his  Foreign  Legion. 
At  Acambaro  a  second  Republican  army,  under  General 
Corona — "welcomer  than  a  stack  of  blues,"  as  Boone  said — 


372  The  Missourian 

more  than  doubled  their  force,  and  together  they  hastened  on 
to  Quere*tero. 

But  at  Celaya,  when  men  were  thinking  of  rest  in  the  cool 
monasteries  there,  they  learned  that  they  must  not  pause.  The 
word  came  from  El  Chaparrito,  who  ever  watched  the  Empire 
as  a  hawk  poised  in  mid-air.  General  Escobedo  of  the  Army 
of  the  North  had  pursued  Miramon  south  into  Queretero,  but 
only  to  find  him  reinforced  there  by  Mendez  and  the  troops 
from  the  capital.  This  superior  array  meant  to  attack  Esco- 
bedo, then  turn  and  destroy  Corona  and  Regules.  The  Repub- 
licans, therefore,  must  be  united  at  once. 

The  message  was  no  sooner  heard  than  the  two  weary 
brigades  of  Corona  and  Re"gules  set  forth  again.  They 
covered  the  remaining  thirty  miles  that  night,  expecting  a 
victorious  Imperialist  army  at  each  bend  in  the  road.  But 
they  met  instead,  toward  morning,  a  lone  Imperialist  horse- 
man galloping  toward  them.  Re*gules's  sharp  eyes  caught  the 
glint  of  the  stranger's  white  gold-bordered  sombrero,  and  with 
a  large  Castilian  oath  he  plucked  out  his  revolver.  Driscoll 
touched  his  arm  soothingly. 

"But,  Maria  purisima,"  cried  Regules,  "he's  an  Explorador ! " 

The  Exploradores  were  Mendez's  scouts,  his  bloodhounds 
for  a  Republican  trail,  and  the  most  hated  of  all  that  breed. 

"Aye,  Senor  General,"  the  stranger  now  spoke,  "I  was 
even  the  capitan  of  Exploradores,  who  kisses  Your  Mercy's 
hand." 

There  was  a  familiar  quality  in  the  man's  half  chuckle,  and 
Driscoll  hastily  struck  a  match.  In  its  light  a  face  grew  before 
him,  and  a  pair  of  malevolent  eyes,  one  of  them  crossed  and 
beaming  recognition,  met  his. 

"Well,  Tibby?"  said  Driscoll  quietly. 

"First  your  pistols,  then  what  you  know,"  commanded 
Rdgules.  "Here,  in  between  us.  Talk  as  we  ride,  or " 

Don  Tiburcio  complied.     Such  had  been  his  intention. 


The  Rendezvous  of  the  Republic  373 

"I  am  no  more  a  loyal  Imperialist,"  he  announced,  with  a 
gruesome  contortion  of  the  mouth. 

"Nor  a  live  deserter  for  long,"  said  Regules.  "Quick, 
what's  the  news  at  Quere'tero  ?  " 

"Carrai,  my  news  and  more  will  jolt  out  if  I  open  my  mouth. 
Eh,  mi  coronel,"  he  added  to  Driscoll,  "you've  taught  this 
barbarous  gait  to  the  Republic  too,  I  see?" 

"Better  obey  orders,"  Driscoll  warned  him  gently. 

"But  there's  no  need  of  hurry,  senores.  Not  now,  there 
isn't." 

"You  mean  the  Imperialists  have  whipped  Escobedo, 
that " 

"Not  so  fast,  mi  general.  If  they  had,  wouldn't  I  want  you 
to  hurry,  for  then  there'd  be  a  conquering  Empire  waiting  for 
you?" 

"Colonel  Driscoll,"  said  Regules,  "fall  back  a  step.  I'm 
going  to  kill  this  fellow  now." 

"As  you  wish,  general.     But  he's  got  something  to  tell." 

"Then  por  Dios,  why  doesn't  he?" 

"Yes,  Tibby,  why  don't  you?" 

Don  Tiburcio  cocked  a  puzzled  head  toward  the  American. 
He  had  not  known  such  softness  of  voice  in  Mendez's  former 
captain  of  Lancers.  But  he  saw  that  Driscoll  had  drawn  his 
pistol,  which  accorded  so  grimly  with  the  mildness  of  his 
tone  that  the  scout  chuckled  in  delight  and  admiration. 

"You  know  that  I'll  tell — now,"  he  said  reproachfully. 
"In  a  word,  there's  been  no  battle  at  all,  curse  him,  curse 
both " 

"No  battle!    Escobedo  kept  away  then?" 

"No,  not  even  that.  The  Imperialists  would  not  fight,  and 
the  Empire  has  lost  its  last  chance.  Curse  them  both, 
curse " 

"Well,  curse  away,  but  who,  what?" 

"I  curse,  senores  mios,"  and  the  scout's  words  grated  in 


374  The  Missourian 

rage  and  chagrin,  "I  curse  His  Excellency  the  general-of- 
division-in-chief  of  the  army  of  operations,  Don  Leonardo 
Marquez.  I  curse,  senores,  the  Reverend  Sefior  Abbot, 
Padre  Augustin  Fischer " 

"Good,  that's  finished.  Now  tell  us  why  there  was  no 
battle." 

"I  curse  His  Ex " 

"You  have  already,  but  now " 

Tiburcio  flung  up  his  hand  in  a  gesture  of  assent,  and  his 
ugly  features  relaxed.  Though  going  at  a  brisk  trot,  he  rolled 
a  cigarette  and  lighted  it.  Then  he  told  his  story.  Queretero  ? 
Ha,  Queretero  was  now  the  Court,  the  Army,  the  Empire! 
Pious  townsmen  shouted  "Viva  el  Senor  Emperador!"  all  day 
long.  The  cafe's  were  alive  with  uniforms  and  oaths  and  high 
play.  Padres  and  friars  shrived  with  ardor.  There  was  the 
theatre.  Fashion  promenaded  under  the  beautiful  Alameda 
trees,  and  whispered  the  latest  rumors  of  the  Empress  Carlota. 
Maximilian  decorated  the  brave,  and  bestowed  gold  fringed 
standards.  Then  came  Escobedo  and  his  Legion  del  Norte, 
but  they  kept  behind  the  hills.  Bueno,  the  Empire  would  go 
forth  and  smite  them,  and  the  pious  townspeople  climbed  to 
the  housetops  to  see  it  done.  And  yesterday  morning  the 
Empire,  with  banners  flying  and  clarion  blasts,  did  march  out 
and  form  in  glittering  battle  array. 

"And  then,  hombre?" 

"And  then  the  Empire  marched  back  again,  senores." 

Re"gules  and  Driscoll  were  stupefied.  What  gross  idiocy — 
or  treachery — had  thrown  away  the  Empire's  one  magnificent 
chance  ? 

Tiburcio  sucked  in  his  breath.     "I  curse " 

"Marquez?"  cried  Rdgules. 

"Si  senor,  Marquez!  Marquez  cried  out  against  the 
attack,  and  His  Majesty  ordered  the  troops  back  into  town 
again," 


The  Rendezvous  of  the  Republic  375 

"But  Miramon,  hombre?  Miramon,  the  best  among  you, 
where  was  he?" 

"General  Miramon  fairly  begged  to  fight,  but  he  has  been 
defeated  once,  and  now  Marquez  warns  the  Emperor  against 
Miramon's  'imprudence.'  Marquez  is  chief  of  staff,  and 
crows  over  Miramon,  who  was  once  his  president.  He  per- 
sonally ordered  Miramon  off  the  field,  yet  it  was  Miramon 
who  first  made  the  insolent  little  whelp  into  a  general." 

"This,"  said  Driscoll,  "does  not  explain  why  you  desert  to 
us?" 

For  an  instant  the  old  malignant  humor  gleamed  in  the 
baleful  crescent.  "It's  the  fault  of  the  fat  padrecito,"  he 
replied.  "Your  Mercy  perhaps  does  not  know  about  the 
pretty  servant  he  eloped  with  from  the  Bishop  of  Durango's 
to  Murguia's  hacienda  ?  Well,  but  trouble  started  when  I 
saw  her,  or  rather,  when  she  saw  me,  even  me,  senor,  for  then 
she  perceived  that  the  padrecito  was  not  a  handsome  man. 
Presto,  there  was  another  eloping,  and  the  holy  Father  Fischer 
felt  bad,  so  very  bad  that  when  he  got  into  favor  with  Maxi- 
milian, he  had  me  condemned  for  certain  toll-taking  matters 
he  knew  of.  But  I  vanished  in  time,  and  I've  been  serving 
under  Mendez  as  a  loyal  and  undiscouraged  Imperialist  until 
yesterday.  But  yesterday  the  padre  recognized  me  at  a  review 
of  the  troops.  Your  Mercy  figures  to  himself  how  long  I 
waited  after  that?  Your  Mercy  observed  how  fast  I  was 
riding  ?  " 

The  fellow's  audacity  saved  him.  The  news  he  brought 
proved  correct.  Escobedo  had  not  been  attacked.  Besides, 
Regules  perhaps  hoped  to  trap  Mendez  through  the  former 
Imperialist  scout,  though  Driscoll  derided  the  idea  and  even 
counseled  the  worthy  deserter's  execution. 

Don  Tiburcio's  lank  jaw  dropped.  Driscoll's  advice  was 
too  heavy  a  recoil  on  his  own  wits,  for  had  he  not  once  saved 
the  Gringo's  life,  feeling  that  one  day  he  might  be  a  beneficiary 


376  The  Missourian 

of  the  Gringo's  singular  aversion  to  shooting  people  ?  And 
now  here  was  the  Gringo  in  quite  another  of  his  unexpected 
humors.  But  what  bothered  Don  Tiburcio  most  was  the 
acumen  that  tempered  the  American's  mercy.  The  facts 
indeed  stood  as  Driscoll  casually  laid  them  before  General 
Regules.  Tibby,  for  instance,  had  neglected  to  call  himself 
a  "loyal"  Republican.  Asked  for  a  description  of  the  new 
earthworks  on  the  Cerro  de  las  Campanas,  he  only  told  how 
peons  and  criminals  were  forced  to  carry  adobes  there  though 
exposed  to  Escobedo's  sharpshooters,  which  had  in  it  for 
Tibby  the  subtle  element  of  a  jest.  Or  asked  about  the  new 
powder  mills,  he  described  how  Maximilian  slept  patriotically 
wrapped  in  a  native  scrape,  woven  with  the  eagle  and  colors, 
or  related  how  the  Emperor  won  the  hearts  of  soldiers  and 
citizens  by  his  princely  and  ever  amiable  bearing. 

"Now  sing  us  the  national  hymn,"  said  Driscoll,  "and  the 
betrayal  of  your  former  friends  will  be  complete." 

But  though  Don  Tiburcio  had  deserted  for  convenience  and 
perhaps  meant  to  be  a  spy  in  the  dissident  camp,  yet  Regules 
saved  him,  while  Driscoll  lifted  his  shoulders  indifferently  and 
at  heart  was  not  sorry. 

The  Celaya  road,  crossing  a  flat  country,  first  touches 
Queretero  on  its  southwestern  corner,  and  from  here  the  two 
Republican  brigades  beheld  the  ancient  romantic  town  in  the 
dawn  as  they  approached.  Many  beautiful  Castilian  towers, 
stately  and  tapering  to  needles  of  stone,  rose  from  among  flat 
roofs  and  verdure  tufts,  and  pointed  upward  to  a  sky  as  soft 
and  warm  as  over  the  Tuscan  hills.  Other  spires  were  Gothic, 
and  others  truncated,  but  the  temples  that  gave  character  to 
the  whole  were  those  of  Byzantine  domes.  Lighted  by  the 
sun's  level  rays  of  early  morning,  their  mosaic  colors  glittered 
as  in  some  bright  glare  of  Algeria,  but  were  relieved  by  the 
town's  cooling  fringe  of  green  and  the  palms  of  many  plazas 
within.  It  might  have  been  a  Moorish  city,  in  Happy  Arabia 


The  Rendezvous  of  the  Republic  377 

called  paradise,  a  city  of  fountains,  and  wooded  glens,  like 
haunts  of  mythical  fauns.  Queretero  once  boasted  a  coat  of 
arms,  granted  by  a  condescending  Spanish  monarch,  and  for 
loyalty  to  the  hoary  order  of  king  and  church  she  in  those  old 
days  described  herself  as  Very  Noble  and  Royal.  Stern 
cuirassed  conquistadores  held  her  as  a  key  to  the  nation's  heart, 
as  a  buckler  for  the  capital,  and  lately  the  French  did  also. 
And  now  the  Hapsburg  had  come  to  a  welcome  of  garlands, 
and  called  her  his  "querida." 

But  however  excellently  Queretero  served  as  a  base  of 
military  operations,  as  a  besieged  place  pocketed  among  hills 
her  aspect  altered  woefully.  She  was  like  an  egg  clutched  in 
the  talons  of  an  eagle.  On  north  and  east  and  south  the  hills 
swept  perilously  near,  a  low,  convenient  range,  with  only  a 
grass  plain  a  few  miles  wide  separating  them  from  the  town 
below.  On  north  and  east  the  heights  were  already  sprinkled 
with  Escobedo's  tents  and  cannon.  They  commanded  the 
only  two  strongholds  of  the  besieged,  as  well  as  the  town  itself, 
which  lay  between.  One  stronghold  was  the  Cerro  de  las 
Campanas,  a  wedge-shaped  hill  on  the  northwestern  edge 
of  the  town,  which  held  nothing  but  trenches.  On  the  north- 
western edge  was  the  other  stronghold,  the  mound  of  Sangremal, 
which  fell  away  as  a  steep  bluff  to  the  grassy  plain  below. 
From  the  bluff,  across  the  plain,  to  the  hills  opposite,  stretched 
a  magnificent  aqueduct.  On  the  mound's  commodious  sum- 
mit of  tableland  there  was  the  Plaza  de  la  Cruz,  also  the 
Church  de  la  Cruz,  and  an  old  Franciscan  hive,  called  the 
monastery  de  la  Cruz.  Here  Maximilian  established  himself 
in  a  friar's  lonely  cell.  On  the  north  a  small  river  skirted  the 
town,  on  the  south,  where  nothing  intervened  between  the 
grassy  plain  and  the  wooded  Alameda,  the  besiegers  found  the 
most  vulnerable  flank. 

On  this  side  investment  began  with  the  arrival  of  Corona  and 
Regules,  and  soon  after,  of  General  Riva  Palacio.  The 


37$  The  Missourian 

Republicans  numbered  fifteen  thousand  already,  and  more 
were  coming  daily,  but  as  yet  there  were  ragged  strands  in  the 
noose  being  woven  around  the  beleaguered  place.  Curiously 
enough,  the  most  feverish  to  see  the  cordon  perfected  was  none 
other  than  Don  Tiburcio. 

"Marquez  will  escape!  Marquez  will  fly  the  net!"  he  kept 
bewailing.  "Si  senor,  and  the  padrecito  with  him,  curse  them 
both!" 

Two  weeks  passed,  filled  with  skirmishes  and  ominous 
tests  of  strength.  At  night  fiery  parabolas  blazed  their  course 
against  the  sky,  up  from  the  outer  hills,  sweeping  down  on 
Las  Campanas  or  La  Cruz.  Imperialist  chiefs  urged  a 
general  attack,  but  again  Marquez  foiled  their  hopes.  Then, 
at  two  o'clock  one  morning,  there  came  to  pass  what  Tiburcio 
had  feared.  A  body  of  horse  stole  out  upon  the  plain,  and 
gained  the  unguarded  Sierra  road  to  Mexico.  Four  thousand 
cavalry  pursued  over  the  hills,  but  in  vain.  The  fugitives 
were  Marquez  and  the  Fifth  Lancers,  his  escort.  He  was 
gone  to  the  capital  to  raise  funds,  and  to  bring  back  with  him, 
at  once,  the  Imperialist  garrison  there  of  five  thousand  men. 
Doting  Maximilian  had  even  named  him  lieutenant  of  the 
Empire,  and  Mexico  City  would  shortly  have  the  Leopard  for 
regent.  Queretero,  moreover,  was  seriously  weakened  by  the 
loss  of  the  Fifth  Lancers,  and  there  were  those  who  remembered 
how,  when  Guadalajara  was  besieged  by  Liberals  seven  years 
before,  Marquez  had  likewise  set  out  for  aid,  and  had  re- 
turned— too  late. 

To  his  wrathful  disgust,  Don  Tiburcio  learned  that  Father 
Fischer  was  also  gone  with  Marquez.  The  priest  had  dis- 
guised himself  in  an  officer's  cloak,  and  for  the  moment  none 
in  the  town  knew  of  his  flight.  The  fat  padre,  it  appeared,  no 
longer  hoped  for  the  luscious  bishopric  of  Durango.  His 
was  the  rat's  instinct,  as  regards  a  sinking  ship. 

The  Leopard  and  the  Rat  got  away  only  in  time.     The 


The  Rendezvous  of  the  Republic  379 

very  next  day  ten  thousand  ragged  Inditos,  largely  conscripts, 
arrived  from  the  Valley  of  Mexico  and  filled  the  gap  in  the 
besiegers'  line.  Investment  was  now  complete,  against  a 
paltry  nine  thousand  within  the  town. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
A  BUCCANEER  AND  A  BATTLE 

"  The  inclination  to  goodness  is  imprinted  deeply  in  the  nature  of  man." 

— Bacon. 

BUT  the  paltry  nine  thousand  were  the  best  army  of  Mexicans 
ever  yet  gathered  together.  For  weeks  they  kept  more  than 
thirty  thousand  Republicans  out  of  an  unwalled,  almost  an 
unfortified  town.  But  while  the  Republicans  were  largely 
chinacos,  or  raw  soldiery,  they  inside  were  trained  men.  There 
were  the  Cazadores,  a  Mexican  edition  of  the  Chasseurs, 
organized  by  Bazaine  under  French  drill  masters.  There 
was  Mendez's  seasoned  brigade.  There  was  Arellano's  artil- 
lery, though  numbering  only  fifty  pieces.  There  were  the  crack 
Dragoons  of  the  Empress,  the  Austro-Mexican  Hussars,  and 
a  squadron  of  the  Municipal  Guards.  There  were  veterans 
who  had  fought  at  Cerro  Gordo,  and  steadily  ever  since  in  the 
civil  wars.  There  was  the  ancient  Battalion  de  Celaya, 
mainstay  of  the  Spanish  viceroys,  and  later  of  the  Emperor 
Iturbide,  its  colonel.  There  were  the  Battalion  del  Emperador, 
the  Tiradores  de  la  Frontera,  a  company  of  engineers,  and 
several  well-disciplined  regiments  of  the  line. 

But  the  day  came  when  they  began  to  starve,  and  being 
hungry  took  the  heart  out  of  many  things.  It  took  the  heart 
out  of  bombarding  Escobedo  in  his  hillside  adobe;  out  of 
taunting  "uncouth  rebels."  The  rebels  were  in  trenches 
often  not  a  street's  width  distant,  and  for  reply  they  pointed 
to  certain  dangling  acorns  who  had  been  "traitors"  caught 
slipping  through  the  lines.  Being  hungry  took  the  heart  out 

380 


A  Buccaneer  and  a  Battle  381 

of  the  quick-time  diana,  played  after  a  brilliant  sortie.  Out 
of  the  embrace  Maximilian  gave  Miramon.  Out  of  Miramon's 
call  for  vivas  for  His  Majesty  the  Emperor.  Out  of  standard 
decorating  and  promotions  and  thrilling  words  of  praise.  Out 
of  the  anniversary  of  Maximilian's  acceptance  of  the  throng. 
Out  of  a  medal  presentation  for  military  merit,  which  the  gen- 
erals bestowed  on  their  Emperor  in  the  name  of  the  army. 
Out  of  being  made  a  caballero  of  the  Order  of  Guadalupe, 
especially  as  the  monarch  could  give  only  a  ribbon,  since  the 
cross  must  wait  until  his  return  to  the  capital.  And  being 
hungry  certainly  made  pathetic  his  prediction  that  some  among 
those  present  would  one  day  wear  the  medal  for  twenty-five 
years  of  faithful  service  to  the  Empire.  Being  hungry  took 
the  poet-hero's  glow  out  of  his  wan  cheek  as  he  declared  again 
that  he,  a  Hapsburg,  would  never  desert,  for  even  then  he 
heard  Imperialist  platoons  shooting  recaptured  deserters. 
Or  he  thought  of  the  wounded  left  to  die  on  the  grassy  plain 
and  lying  there  unburied.  No,  all  the  heart  was  being  taken 
out  of  these  things,  for  Marquez  still  did  not  come  with  the 
help  he  had  gone  to  bring,  and  the  noose  was  tightening  day  by 
day.  Attempts  were  made  to  send  some  one  through  to  depose 
Marquez,  but  each  one  failed.  Splendid  sallies  resulted  in 
prisoners  taken,  which  were  only  so  many  more  mouths  to 
feed.  The  Roman  aqueduct  had  long  since  been  cut  off,  and 
now  the  wells  were  giving  out.  Mules  and  horses  drank  at 
the  river,  while  sharpshooters  picked  them  off.  The  feebler 
animals  were  butchered  and  distributed  as  rations.  And 
still  the  sorry  Marquez  gave  no  sign.  Even  hope  failed  the 
empty  stomachs. 

But  for  those  who  waited  outside  as  Vengeance  enthroned, 
expectation  began  to  take  on  a  creepy  quality.  The  besiegers 
were  preparing  against  themselves  a  host,  not  of  men,  but  of 
frightful  spectres,  of  famished  maniacs,  of  unearthly  ghouls, 
who  would  clutch  and  tear  with  claws  any  man  that  stood  be- 


382  The  Missourian 

tween  them  and  a  morsel  of  food.  And  the  fury  of  desperation 
sharpened  with  each  succeeding  irony  of  a  dinner  hour. 

The  siege  had  endured  six  weeks.  Marquez  had  been  gone 
a  month.  But  the  Republicans  held  ready  for  whatever  force 
he  might  bring.  Their  key  to  the  situation  was  the  Cimatario, 
the  highest  hill  on  the  south.  Between  it  and  the  wooded 
Alameda  stretched  the  grassy  plain.  Republican  trenches 
from  base  to  shoulder  of  the  peak  opposed  Imperialist  trenches 
under  the  Alameda  trees.  Republican  troops  flanked  the 
Cimatario  on  either  side,  lying  in  wait  for  Marquez.  On  one 
side  Driscoll's  Grays  guarded  the  Celaya  road. 

So  here  they  were  sleeping  encamped  on  the  morning  of 
April  27,  when  the  bugle  of  a  patrol  cracked  their  slumbers. 
They  lay  booted  and  spurred.  A  moment  later  they  were 
horsed  as  well,  blinking  across  the  plain  in  the  pearly  mist  of 
dawn.  They  had  heard  hoofbeats,  sharp  and  dry  on  the  high 
tableland.  Now  they  saw  a  wild,  shadowy  troop,  which  was 
hotly  pursuing  a  spectral  coach  of  gossamer  wheels,  with  six 
plunging  mules  frantically  lashed  by  outriders.  At  once, 
almost,  the  coach  was  lost  among  the  dim  strangers,  who 
snatched  at  flying  ends  of  harness,  and  with  their  prize  raced 
on  again. 

The  Grays  stared.  It  was  like  some  pictured  hold-up,  not 
real.  But  they  knew  better  when  from  among  themselves  a 
colossal  yellow  horse  and  rider  dashed  toward  the  road.  Then 
they  awoke  for  certain,  and  tore  after  their  colonel  to  solve 
this  ashen  mystery  so  early  in  the  morning.  Was  it  Marquez, 
perhaps?  But  the  coach  white  with  dust,  and  white  curtains 
flapping,  what  was  that? 

Striking  their  flank  at  an  angle,  Driscoll  drove  hard  into  the 
fleeing  horde.  The  Grays  saw  his  hand  raise  as  a  signal, 
whereat  they  did  not  close  in,  but  swerved  and  galloped  parallel, 
some  fifty  paces  distant.  Driscoll  struggled  alone  against  the 
heaving  sea  about  him.  But  no  cut-throat  of  that  pirate  mass 


A  Buccaneer  and  a  Battle  383 

so  much  as  drew  a  knife.  By  force  of  brawn,  he  wedged  his 
way  toward  the  coach,  reached  it,  leaned  forward,  and  caught 
up  the  curtain.  And  what  he  saw  was  a  poke  bonnet.  The 
bonnet  was  a  bower  of  lace  and  roses,  held  by  a  filmy  saucy 
knot  under  a  lady's  chin.  He  saw  a  face  framed  within,  of  a 
skin  creamy  white,  of  lips  blood-red,  of  hair  like  copper, 
and  he  saw  a  pair  of  eyes.  They  were  gray  eyes,  and 
as  they  opened  suddenly  and  wider  upon  him  whom  she 
thought  must  be  her  captor,  the  lady  started  violently, 
her  cheeks  aflame.  But  at  once  the  eyes  snapped  as  in 
mockery,  and  her  h'ps  moved. 

"Monsieur  permits  himself "  she  began,  but  no  one 

heard  except  her  terrified  companion  within  the  coach.  Driscoll 
had  already  dropped  the  curtain  as  a  thing  that  burned,  and  was 
raging  on  again  with  the  turbulent  stream.  He  got  to  the 
leader  of  the  band,  and  jerked  the  fellow's  bridle.  He  raised 
his  voice,  and  louder  than  the  pounding  of  hoofs  he  cursed  in 
wrathful  disgust. 

"Dam'  you  Rod,  this  here's  getting  monotonous!" 
The  man  swung  in  his  saddle.  His  eyes  were  black-browed 
and  savage.  He  was  Rodrigo  Galan,  the  terrible  Don  Rod- 
rigo.  But  shabby,  how  very  shabby  he  looked  for  the  thief 
of  million  dollar  convoys !  Yet  that  bonanza  coup  of  the  bullion 
train  had  happened  two  years  ago.  Since  then  the  outlaw 
had  visited  the  capital.  Boldly,  audaciously,  he  had  gone  as  a 
rich  hacendado,  and  after  the  manner  of  rich  hacendados  he 
had  "seen  the  City."  Mozos  with  gorged  canvas  bags  on  their 
shoulders  had  followed  his  stately  stride  into  the  gambling 
casinos.  He  had  played  with  regal  nerve,  and  on  the  last 
occasion,  had  flung  the  emptied  sacks  away  as  nonchalantly 
as  on  the  first.  Only,  the  last  time,  he  had  felt  remorse  that 
the  "bank"  had  profited  instead  of  Tiburcio.  In  that  matter 
of  the  bullion  convoy  he  had  not  treated  Don  Tiburcio  as  one 
caballero  should  another. 


384  The  Missourian 

Their  horses — Rodrigo's  and  Driscoll's — were  racing  by 
bounds  shoulder  to  shoulder.  This  endured  for  possibly  the 
space  of  a  second.  Then  Demijohn  felt  his  rein  tighten,  and 
he  took  more  time.  Next  his  bit  suddenly  pinched,  and 
down  the  old  fellow  came  upon  his  front  feet  together,  firmly 
planted,  and  sank  to  his  haunches.  Driscoll  still  held  Rod- 
rigo's bridle,  and  Rodrigo  and  horse,  being  in  air,  lunged 
backward. 

"We  stop  here,"  Driscoll  announced. 

Don  Rodrigo  plumped  down  heavily  in  his  saddle.  His 
bristling  moustache  lifted  over  his  cruel  white  teeth.  Two 
hundred  swarthy  little  demons  reining  in  around  them 
looked  expectantly  for  a  signal.  But  their  chief  frowned 
at  the  twelve  hundred  Gringo  Grays  hovering  on  his 
flank.  They  too  wanted  only  a  sign,  and  they  outnum- 
bered the  Brigand's  six  to  one.  But  Rodrigo  believed  he 
held  the  advantage.  First  he  obediently  halted  himself 
and  his  minions. 

"Now  then  senor,"  said  he  in  pompous  and  heavy  syllables, 
"I  am  at  your  disposition.  Will  your  people  commence  the 
battle,  or  shall  we  ?  " 

Driscoll  appreciated  the  dilemma.  The  carriage  would  be 
in  the  line  of  fire.  He  had  had  an  intuition  of  its  occupants, 
and  for  that  reason  had  kept  back  his  men. 

"Where  was  she  going?"  he  demanded. 

Rodrigo  feigned  surprise.  "And  where,"  he  asked,  "or 
rather,  to  whom,  should  Your  Mercy  imagine?" 

To  Quere"tero!  To  Maximilian,  of  course!  This,  too, 
Driscoll  had  divined  already. 

"No  matter,"  he  retorted  shortly,  "but  how  did  you  run 
across  her  this  time?" 

The  outlaw  filled  his  chest,  "You  Americans,  senor, 
do  not  understand  the  feelings  of  a  man  bowed  under  a 
heavy  wrong.  You " 


A  Buccaneer  and  a  Battle  385 

"We'll  let  it  go  at  that,"  said  Driscoll,  with  a  little  wave 
of  the  hand,  "but — how  in 

"You  scoff  already,  senor?  But  will  you,  at  these  stains  of 
blood?  Then  let  me  say  to  you,  senor  mio,  they  make  me 
remember  one  shameless  deed  for  which  the  tyrant  Maxi- 
milian must  pay." 

The  stains  Rodrigo  meant  were  on  a  little  ivory  cross  which 
he  had  taken  from  his  jacket.  The  emblem  served  him  to 
lash  his  emotions,  to  goad  his  precious  sense  of  wrong.  He 
studied  the  cross  intently;  then,  by  a  vast  and  excruciating 
effort,  thrust  it  into  Driscoll's  hand. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  cried,  "you  must  take  it!    He  said  so." 

"He?" 

"Si,  senor,  he  who  shares  my  wrong,  Don  Anastasio  Mur- 
guia." 

"Murgie!"  exclaimed  the  bewildered  American.  "But — 
why,  hombre,  I  haven't  seen  the  old  skinflint  since — since  he 
and  I  both  were  courtmartialled  by  Lopez!" 

"Still  I  promised  him  to  send  the  cross  to  you,  because  you 
will  have  a  chance  to  give  it  to  him.  He  said  so." 

"Oh,  he  did?"  But  Driscoll  put  the  trinket  in  his  pocket, 
not  unwilling  to  see  more  of  this  foolish  drama  in  Latin- 
American  sentiment.  "Now  then,  Rod,"  he  went  on  im- 
patiently, "you  haven't  explained  yet  how  you  happen  to  find 
her  again." 

"That,"  replied  the  outlaw,  "was  his  part  of  the  bargain." 

"Whose?" 

"Anastasio  Murguia's." 

"Rod,  you  talk  like  a " 

"But  no,  senor,  it's  because  you  Americans  cannot  under- 
stand. Murguia  also  believes  in  vengeance.  I  haven't  seen 
him  either,  not  since  he  sold  his  hacienda  over  a  year  ago.  But 
I  do  know  that  he  or  some  spy  of  his  is  in  the  capital,  for  a 
messenger  from  him  came  to  me  in  the  mountains.  The 


386  The  Missourian 

messenger  said  that  the  Marquesa  d'Aumerle  was  caving 
for  Quere*tero.  If  I  captured  her,  it  would  be  vengeance  in 
kind.  But  Murguia  wanted  pay  for  his  information.  He 
wanted  that  cross — it  was  his  daughter's — and  I  was  to  send  it 
to  him  through  you.  Dios  mio,  but  I  had  to  hurry!  A  little 
more,  and  the  Marquesa  would  have  been  inside  your  lines." 

"She  is  already,"  Driscoll  corrected  him,  "and  so  are  you. 
Will  you  fight  it  out,  or  surrender  ? " 

He  pointed  to  the  Grays  as  he  spoke.  They  had  dismounted, 
and  each  man  had  a  rifle  at  aim  across  his  saddle.  It  was  a 
reminiscence  out  of  Driscoll's  boyhood  of  Indians  and  the 
Santa  Fe  trail.  But  Don  Rodrigo  only  smiled. 

"You  want  the  coach  first?"  he  said. 

"No!"  Driscoll  retorted.  "You're  the  one  that's  wanted, 
and  you  can  either  wait  for  your  trial,  or  be  shot  now,  fighting. 
The  coach  will  have  to  take  its  chances.  But  see  here,  if  the 
firing  once  starts,  not  a  thief  among  you  will  be  left  stand- 
ing  " 

It  was  a  perilous  "bluff,"  and  none  might  say  if  it  would 
have  broken  the  deadlock.  But  the  outlaw  interrupted. 

"Listen!    What's  that?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  We're  only  throwing  a  few  bombs  into 
Quer6tero." 

"Only!"  The  brigand's  eyes  flashed,  and  his  voice  was 
filled  with  envy.  Throwing  bombs  among  the  traitors? — 
and  magnificence  like  that  had  grown  common!  Yet  he, 
whose  patriotism  was  a  passion  that  fed  and  thrived  upon  itself, 
must  be  barred  from  such  exquisite  satiety. 

Driscoll  understood,  and  thought  it  droll.  First  there  was 
that  loyal  Imperialist,  Don  Tiburcio,  frothing  chagrin  because 
he  had  had  to  desert.  And  now  here  was  this  rabid  Republican, 
heart  broken  over  being  outlawed  from  the  ranks  of  his  country's 
avengers. 

Again  Rodrigo  interrupted,   more  excitedly  yet.     "Senor> 


A  Buccaneer  and  a  Battle  387 

senor,  you  don't  shoot  them  that  way  every  day?  What 
does  it  mean?" 

Both  gazed  across  the  plain  to  the  city  of  domes  under  the 
green  hills.  Driscoll's  chin  raised,  and  he  listened  intently. 
What  had  commenced  like  indolent  target  practice  against 
a  beleaguered  town  had  suddenly  burst  into  a  terrific  can- 
nonading chorus.  More,  there  was  musketry,  vicious  and 
sustained.  There  were  troops  deploying  over  the  plain. 
Something  critical  was  happening.  If  it  were  the  supreme 
rally  of  the  famishing  Empire! 

Driscoll  stirred  uneasily.  He  glanced  at  his  outlaw.  He 
thought  of  the  coach.  To  leave  her  with  these  ruffians?  To 
miss  a  fight?  Here  was  a  quandary! 

"You  are  not  going  ?  "  Rodrigo  cried  at  him  furiously.  "Now, 
now,"  he  raged,  "is  the  hour  of  triumph  for  the  incarnation  of 
popular  sovereignty.  Go,  I  say,  go,  the  Republic  needs 
you!" 

Until  those  words  Rodrigo  had  held  the  situation.  With 
them  he  lost  it,  and  Driscoll  was  master.  And  Driscoll  grew 
serene,  and  very  sweet  of  manner.  He  began  filling  a  cob 
pipe.  A  nod  of  his  head  indicated  the  coach  as  a  condition 
of  his  going. 

"Look,  look!"  Rodrigo  shouted.  "Oh,  que  viva — they're 
running!  We've  smoked  them  out!  We've  smoked  them 
out!" 

Driscoll  swept  the  country  with  his  glasses.  Thousands 
of  men  were  running  like  frightened  rabbits  down  the  Cima- 
tario  slope,  and  spreading  as  a  fan  over  the  grassy  plain. 
Mountain  pieces  boomed  farewell  behind  them,  until  in 
abject  panic  they  cast  away  carbines  and  scrambled  the 
faster.  But  other  troops  were  pushing  up  the  slope  op- 
posite the  town,  and  these  were  ordered  ranks  of  infantry. 
Up  and  up  they  climbed,  to  trench  after  trench,  and  the 
howitzers  one  by  one  stopped  short  their  roar.  When 


388  The  Missourian 

Driscoll  laid  down  the  glasses,  his  face  was  white.  Roan'go's 
glee  turned  to  uncertainty. 

"What— what " 

"Smoked  out,  you  fool?    We're  the  ones  smoked  out!" 

"But  those  runaways?" 

"Are  our  own  men,  ten  thousand  of  'em,  raw  conscripts  to 
support  our  batteries  on  the  Cimatario." 

"But  the  Cimitario ? "  Rodrigo  knew  by  instinct  the  crucial 
importance  of  the  black  cone. 

"The  Cimitario  is  taken  by  the  Imperialists!" 

Driscoll  did  not  forget,  however,  the  nearer  contest,  and  as 
the  Mexican  grew  frantic,  he  was  the  more  coolly  indifferent. 

"Max  has  everything  his  own  way  now,"  he  added  sooth- 
ingly. "He  can  either  evacuate,  or  go  around  on  the  north 
side  and  thrash  Escobedo." 

But  the  Grays  were  clamoring  for  action.  "By  cracken, 
Din,  hurry  up  there!"  yelled  Cal  Grinders. 

Driscoll  raised  his  palm,  waving  the  fingers  for  patience. 
He  scanned  the  plain  again.  The  Imperialist  ranks  were 
breaking.  Hungry  men  rushed  on  the  besiegers'  camps,  snatch- 
ing untouched  breakfasts.  The  townsmen  poured  out  among 
the  uniforms,  and  darted  greedily  in  every  direction.  The 
llano  was  alive  with  scurrying  human  beings.  Driscoll  could 
well  wait  for  the  psychology  of  Republican  defeat  on  Don 
Rodrigo,  since  at  the  same  time  he  awaited  the  effects  of 
victory  on  a  starving  army.  The  Grays  fretted,  but  they  knew 
their  colonel  was  never  more  to  be  depended  upon  than  when 
his  blood  grew  cold  like  this. 

"If,"  Driscoll  observed  pleasantly  to  the  Mexican, "  Escobedo 
isn't  already  making  tracks  for  San  Luis " 

It  was  the  last  straw.  The  patriot  brigand  jerked  off  his 
sombrero  and  flung  it  to  the  ground.  He  gestured  wildly  over 
the  plain,  and  he  gestured  in  the  American's  face.  He  choked 
on  words  that  boiled  up  too  fast. 


A  Buccaneer  and  a  Battle  389 

"You — you — traitor!"  he  spluttered.  There  was  actually 
froth  on  his  lips. 

"We  haven't,"  Driscoll  reminded  him  with  exceeding  gentle- 
ness, "settled  this  other  yet,"  and  again  he  nodded  to  the 
coach. 

"That — that  is  why  you  wait?"  Rodrigo  had  forgotten  his 
prize  entirely.  "Take  her,  then,  take  her!  Only  go,  go,  kill 
all  the  traitors!" 

"After  you,  caballero,"  Driscoll  returned  with  Mexican 
politeness.  He  wanted  to  be  sure  of  the  outlaw's  departure, 
since  holding  him  prisoner  was  now  out  of  the  question.  But 
Rodrigo  chafed  only  to  be  gone.  With  a  reed  whistle  he 
signaled  his  little  demon  centaurs,  then  at  a  touch  of  the  spurs 
hi:  horse  leaped  forward  and  all  the  band  clattered  close  on  his 
heels. 

"Sure  anxious  to  escape,"  thought  Driscoll.  But  he 
stared  after  them  in  wonder.  Instead  of  turning  to  the 
safety  of  the  mountains,  they  charged  straight  ahead  on 
the  town,  straight  against  the  Empire,  and  in  any  case, 
straight  into  the  maw  of  justice.  Behind,  the  coach  and 
mules  stood  high  and  dry  in  the  road.  Driscoll  was  at  once 
all  action. 

"  Shanks,"  he  called. 

Mr.  Boone  hurried  to  him  from  the  Grays. 

"Shanks,  will  you  stay  here  with  six  men " 

"Jack  Driscoll!" 

"To  watch  that  coach,  Dan.    There's  two  girls  in  it." 

"Jack!    Miss  that  there  fight!" 

"But  Dan,  these  girls  are  friends  of  yours,  you  met  them 
once." 

Mr.  Boone  started  violently. 

"Never  mind,  I'll  ask  Rube  Marmaduke  or  the  Parson." 

A  pitiful  struggle  racked  Mr.  Boone. 

"You,  you're  not  fooling  me,  Din  ? "  he  pleaded. 


390  The  Missourian 

"Sure  not.  It's  your  empress  all  right.  It's  Miss  Burt  all 
right." 

"Then,  Lawd  help  me,  I'll  stay! — But  you'd  best  be  hustling 
and  get  to  work." 

"Just  a  minute,  Shanks,  there's  the  other  one  in  the  coach. 
She  wants  to  go  to  Queretero.  If  she  gives  her  word  of  honor — 
never  mind,  she  knows  honor  from  a  man's  standpoint — if  she 
gives  her  word  that  she  brings  nothing  that  will  help  'em  inside, 
then  you  can  escort  the  coach  into  the  town  after  things  quiet 
down  some.  All  right?  Good.  Then  we're  off!" 

Demijohn's  hoofs  pelted  dust  balls  with  each  impact.  The 
Grays  were  ready.  They  surged  behind.  The  sound  of 
them  was  a  swishing  roar.  In  the  apex  of  the  blinding  tempest, 
Driscoll  sat  his  saddle  as  unmoved  as  an  engineer  in  his  cab. 
He  looked  ahead  placidly.  Empire  and  a  prince  had  just 
triumphed.  So  he  was  going  to  readjust  fatality.  The  smile 
touched  his  lips  as  it  never  had  before,  and  hovered  there  in 
the  midst  of  battle. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

BLOOD  AND  NOISE — WHAT  ELSE? 

"  On  stubborn  foes  he  vengeance  wreak'd, 
And  laid  about  him  like  a  Tartar, 
But  if  for  mercy  once  they  squeak'd, 
He  was  the  first  to  grant  them  quarter.'"        '  . 
— Orlando  Furioso. 

ONLY  for  the  moment  of  a  cooling  breath  is  Nature  gray  in 
Mexico.  The  sun's  barbed  shafts  had  already  ripped  away 
the  cloak  of  dawn  when  Driscoll  and  his  cavaliers  swept  over 
the  glaring  road.  But  there  was  no  longer  any  battle.  The 
plain  swarmed  confusion  only.  Panic  cringed  before  hunger. 
The  defeated  besiegers  panted,  stumbled,  ran  on  again,  or  lay 
still  in  trembling.  The  victorious  besieged  were  gorging 
from  fingers  crammed  full.  It  was  the  hour  for  trophies.  A 
prosperous  townsman  bore  a  stack  of  tortillas,  and  gloated 
leeringly  as  he  hurried  to  put  his  treasure  safely  away.  A 
dashing  Hungarian  with  fur  pelisse  shouted  gallant  oaths  at  a 
yoke  of  oxen  and  prodded  them  with  his  curved  sword,  as 
though  a  creaking  cart  filled  with  corn  were  the  precious  loot 
of  an  Attila.  Pueblo  and  soldiery  tore  ravenously  at  forti- 
fications that  had  so  long  kept  them  from  one  savory  broth. 
With  nails  alone  they  would  demolish  walls  and  trenches. 
Some  lurched  over  fugitives  in  the  grass,  and  then  pinned 
them  there  with  bayonets,  the  lust  for  food  turning  fiendishly 
to  a  lust  for  blood. 

But  what  most  inflamed  the  Grays  were  the  captured  cannon. 
They  counted  as  many  as  twenty  being  dragged  into  the  Im- 
perialist lines.  The  Missourians  were  aggrieved.  Never,  never 

391 


392  The  Missourian 

had  Joe  Shelby's  brigade  ever  lost  a  gun.  And  as  they  galloped, 
they  looked  anxiously  about  for  chances  of  more  battle.  Just 
then  Rodrigo's  outlaw  band  caught  their  eye.  These  had 
swerved  from  the  road  out  upon  the  field,  hot  to  engage  any- 
thing, everything.  A  long  provision  train  offered  first.  Many 
carts  had  been  loaded  with  Republican  stores,  and  were  being 
convoyed  to  the  town  by  a  squadron  of  Imperialist  cavalry. 
It  was  the  clash  between  this  escort  and  the  brigands  that 
attracted  the  Grays  coming  on  behind.  But  the  escort  wheeled 
and  fled  and  the  brigands  pursued,  slashing  with  machetes, 
and  so  charged  full  tilt  into  the  Dragoons  of  the  Empress  who 
were  sent  to  retake  the  abandoned  prize.  Red  tunics  mixed 
with  ragged  yellow  shirts,  and  war-chargers  and  mustangs 
swirled  together  as  a  maelstrom.  Then  the  Grays  pounded 
among  them,  in  each  hand  of  each  man  a  six-shooter.  The 
red  spots  began  to  fall  out  of  the  peppered  caldron.  The 
red  tunics  that  were  left  broke,  retreated,  ran.  It  became 
a  rout.  Only  a  few  of  the  Empire's  best  survived  those 
ten  minutes  of  blood-letting.  Fatality?  Driscoll's  lip  curled. 
Fatality?  The  Dragoons,  now  no  more,  had  twice  held  him 
for  their  bullets. 

Grays  and  brigands  chased  them  back  toward  Queretero. 
The  fleeing  remnant  began  yelling  for  help.  Driscoll  rose  in 
his  stirrups,  and  saw  just  ahead  a  large  force  of  the  enemy. 
It  was  gathered  around  the  Casa  Blanca,  a  little  house  on  the 
plain.  The  large  Imperialist  force  there  was  an  army,  nothing 
less,  though  still  disordered  from  the  late  action  and  victory. 
Surrounded  by  a  brilliant  staff  was  a  tall,  golden  bearded 
chieftain,  sumptuously  arrayed  as  a  general  of  division,  regally 
mounted  on  a  cream-coated  horse  of  Spain.  He  was  Maxi- 
milian, viewing  from  there  the  winning  of  his  empire.  The 
army  behind  him  filled  his  ears — "Viva  Su  Majestad!" 

But  he  who  had  given  the  cue  for  that  thrilling  music  now 
saw  the  convoy's  fate.  He  rode  up  and  down  anxiously, 


Blood  and  Noise — What  Else  ?  393 

striving  for  order  in  the  confused  ranks.  He  wore  the  green 
sash  of  a  general.  He  had  a  moustache  and  imperial,  searching 
black  eyes,  and  an  open  brow.  His  fine  features  showed  in  the 
blend  of  French  and  Castilian  blood.  He  was  the  real  chief- 
tain. He  was  Miramon.  Impetuously  he  made  ready  to 
avenge  the  Dragoons. 

These  things  that  he  saw  ahead  brought  Driscoll  to  his 
senses.  With  reluctance,  but  instantly,  he  made  up  his  mind. 
He  held  high  his  sabre  and  halted  his  own  men,  turning  at  the 
same  time  to  collide  obliquely,  and  purposely,  against  Rodrigo. 

"Not  that  way,  Rod,  not  that  way!" 

"But  it's  the  tyrant!    It's  the  tyrant!" 

Driscoll  got  the  brigand's  bridle  and  swung  him  around 
fiercely.  "Let  the  poor  tyrant  be!"  he  yelled.  "We've  got 
to  take  that  there  Cimatario  hill." 

A  moment  later  Grays  and  brigands  wheeled  to  the  right 
and  were  off.  Back  at  the  Casa  Blanca  Maximilian  lowered 
his  glasses.  "They  surely,  they  surely  are  not — yes,"  he 
cried,  "they  are  going  to  attack  the  Cimatario!" 

Miramon  smiled.  "Then  they  are  lunatics,"  he  said. 
"Why,  Your  Highness  knows  that  we  have  five  thousand  of 
our  best  men  on  the  Cimatario." 

"Yes,"  Maximilian  agreed  uneasily,  "but  I  thought  I  recog- 
nized the  man  who  leads  those  lunatics.  Do  you  happen  to 
know,  general,  how  Tampico  fell?" 

"Do  not  worry,  sire,"  Miramon  replied,  willing  to  humor 
the  prince,  "I  will  take  our  infantry  to  the  Alameda  and 
strengthen  our  reserve  there,  should  anything  really  happen." 

Across  the  grassy  plain  raced  the  twelve  hundred  cavalry 
and  the  two  hundred  outlaws.  They  raced  to  attack  five 
thousand  brave  men  who  had  that  morning  dislodged  ten 
thousand.  Five  thousand  in  the  trenches  above,  fourteen 
hundred  in  the  open  below,  such  were  the  odds  of  Empire 
against  Republic. 


394  The  Missourian 

Grays  and  brigands  drew  rein  under  the  Cimatario's  west 
slope,  and  the  bugle  sounded  to  dismount. 

"But  senor,"  Rodrigo  protested,  "don't  we  charge  straight 
up?" 

"And  not  have  a  man  left  when  we  do  get  up  ?  Here  Clem," 
Driscoll  added  to  Old  Brothers  and  Sisters,  the  lieutenant 
colonel  of  the  Grays,  "you  circle  round  and  up  the  other 
side  with  eight  companies.  Take  all  the  horses,  but  leave 
'em  back  of  the  hill  as  you  go.  Don't  that  look  like  the 
best  scheme?" 

The  parson's  cherubic  features  beamed.  "Good-bye,  Din," 
he  said.  "But  pshaw,  I  reckon — I  reckon  we'll  be  meeting  up 
above."  He  referred,  however,  to  the  top  of  the  Cimatario. 

Four  companies  and  Rodrigo's  band  remained.  These 
Driscoll  spread  out  in  a  skirmish  line  that  made  a  long  beaded 
chain  around  their  side  of  the  hill.  It  was  evidently  an  unfa- 
miliar method,  for  the  Imperialist  tiradores  fired  down  on  them 
contemptuously.  But  each  time,  while  the  enemy  above  were 
reloading,  the  Grays  and  outlaws  below  were  climbing  a  few 
yards,  each  man  of  them  individually,  up  from  behind  his 
own  particular  rock.  The  Imperialists,  it  now  appeared, 
had  blundered  incomprehensibly,  since  they  had  actually 
taken  away  nearly  all  the  cannon  captured  on  the  Cimatario. 
But  six-pound  affairs  from  batteries  in  the  Alameda  soon  began 
to  splinter  and  furrow  around  the  climbing  men.  One  loosened 
boulder  rolled  and  struck  Doc  Clayburn  on  the  tip  of  the 
shoulder,  bringing  him  down  like  a  bag  of  meal.  He  arose, 
feeling  himself.  "Now,  by  the  Great  and  Unterrified  Con- 
tinental  "  he  began,  as  he  always  did  at  the  monotony  of 

being  hit.  Then  his  disgust  changed  to  wonder.  "W'y,"  he 
cried,  "I'm  not  either,  I  only  thought  I  was!" 

They  mounted  higher,  and  the  business  grew  hotter.  Each 
man  had  to  look  to  himself  more  and  more  sharply,  lest  he 
forget  that  economy  of  the  individual  was  now  the  hope  of  the 


Blood  and  Noise — What  Else  ?  395 

regiment.  But  for  all  that,  when  a  Missourian  craved  tobacco 
— it  is  a  craving  not  to  be  denied,  in  no  matter  what  danger,  as 
most  any  fireman  knows — he  would  leave  cover  to  beg  his 
nearest  neighbor  for  a  chew,  and  obtaining  it,  would  feel  the 
heart  put  back  into  him. 

As  they  drew  close  under  the  first  of  the  trenches,  they  con- 
centrated for  a  bit  of  sharp  in-fighting,  and  so  suffered  more. 
But  once  they  provoked  the  next  volley,  they  meant  to  rush  the 
works.  The  Imperialists  though  were  loath  to  squander  the 
one  ball  to  a  carbine  when  Indian-like  fighters  like  these  were 
so  near.  They  had  one  mountain  piece,  a  brass  howitzer,  and 
the  gunner  stood  ready,  the  lanyard  in  his  hand.  But  he  hesi- 
tated, bewildered.  His  targets  were  not  twenty  paces  below, 
yet  nowhere  crouching  behind  the  rocks  were  the  foe  massed 
together.  His  pride  forbade  that  he  waste  twelve  pounds  of 
death  on  a  single  man. 

But  suddenly  that  happened  which  the  gunner  never  in  this 
life  explained.  Poised  expectant  in  the  lull  of  the  fray,  he  was 
trembling  under  the  tense  silence,  when  he  saw  the  impetuous 
Don  Rodrigo  dart  up  the  slope,  full  against  the  muzzle.  At 
the  same  instant  he  heard  shouts  of  warning  behind  him,  and 
he  heard  the  tiradores  there  above  firing  at  someone  almost  at 
his  feet.  But  the  figure  that  had  scaled  up  the  back  of  the  hill, 
crawling  around  the  trench,  was  already  on  him.  He  drew 
back  his  arm  to  drive  the  heavy  shot  through  Don  Rodrigo  in 
front,  but  only  to  feel  the  cord  in  his  hand  part  before  a  knife's 
keen  edge.  With  a  cry  of  dismay  he  sprang  to  grasp  the  rope's 
end,  but  as  in  a  vision  a  head  of  curly  black  and  an  odd  smile 
rose  between,  and  a  swinging  fist  of  a  great  bared  arm  crashed 
back  his  chin,  and  he  sank  as  a  brained  ox. 

"Lambaste  'em,  Din  Driscoll!" 

It  was  a  rapturous  shout,  and  Cal  Grinders,  passing  Rodrigo, 
tumbled  over  the  earth-heap  and  joined  his  colonel  against  five 
hundred.  Behind  swarmed  others  into  the  newly  awakened 


396  The  Missourian 

hell,  coatless  men  of  Saxon  necks  tanned  a  dark  ruby,  and  in 
the  hot  Imperialist  fire  they  settled  to  their  work. 

"By  cracken,  lambaste  'em!  Why  in  all  hell  don't  ye  lam- 
baste 'em?" 

This  fury  boiled  through  oaths,  unable  to  spend  itself  in 
blows.  The  tigerish  rage  seized  on  them  every  one.  Teeth 
grated  vengefully  as  men  struck. 

"Lambaste  'em,  Din  Driscoll!" 

"Lambaste  'em — good — Din  Driscoll!" 

The  yell  swelled  to  a  murderous  chorus.  These  men  did 
not  know  that  they  were  raving.  A  war  cry  is  just  the  natural 
vent.  It  is  simply  the  whole  pack  in  full  cry. 

But  never  before — for  now  around  him  there  was  the  con- 
trast  of  hate  and  panting  and  passions  in  ferment — had  Driscoll 
seemed  so  distant  a  thing  from  flesh  and  the  human  sphere.  In 
grime,  in  dust,  in  smoke,  among  faces  changing  demoniac  wrath 
for  the  sharp,  self-wondering  agony  of  mortality,  his  face  was 
cool,  serene,  with  just  the  hint  of  a  smile  tugging  at  his  lips. 
His  own  men  would  try  to  look  another  way,  try  uneasily  to 
break  the  fascination  of  this  strange  warrior  who  led  them. 

The  battle  was  short,  but  of  the  hottest.  Its  central  point 
was  the  little  brass  howitzer.  Driscoll,  Grinders,  Bledsoe,  the 
Doc,  all  four  pushed  at  the  carriage  or  pulled  at  the  trunnion 
rings,  while  around  them,  hindering  them,  swaying  back  and 
forth  over  rocks  and  in  the  ditches,  the  two  forces  battled  for 
possession,  hand  to  hand,  with  six-shooters  and  clubbed  mus- 
kets. Grinders  fell,  cursing  angrily.  Bledsoe  fell,  toppling 

heavily  his  great  length.  The  Doc  fell.  "By  the "  he 

began,  but  got  no  further.  He  was  not  mistaken  this  time. 
But  the  gun  was  turned  at  last,  and  a  vicious  hand  jerked  the 
rope.  Powder  grains  pierced  the  eyes  of  the  nearest  Imperial- 
ists. The  shot  tore  through  the  mass  of  them.  Yet  Driscoll 
remembered  most  how  wan,  how  hungry,  they  looked. 

"Death  to  the  traitors!     A  muerte!    A  mu-erte!" 


Blood  and  Noise — What  Else  ?  397 

It  was  a  heavy  nasal,  hurled  from  the  lungs  with  that  force 
and  venom  peculiar  to  the  Spanish  tongue.  It  came  from  Don 
Rodrigo,  who  had  pulled  the  lanyard,  and  who  now  pulled  it 
again  and  again,  crazed  first  with  joy,  then  with  rage  because 
the  emptied  gun  would  not  respond. 

While  the  combatants  were  so  confused  together,  the 
tiradores  in  the  upper  trenches  had  to  hold  their  fire, 
but  when  the  defenders  gave  way  at  last,  those  above  could 
wait  no  longer.  Four  thousand  and  more,  they  leaped  their 
earthworks,  and  came  charging  down  the  slope  on  what 
was  left  of  Driscoll's  six  hundred. 

Grays  and  brigands  faced  about,  but  most  of  all  they  looked 
beyond  the  enemy's  right  flank,  to  the  line  of  the  hill's  crest 
there.  For  just  beyond  that  jagged  line  and  somewhere  below 
Old  Brothers  and  Sisters  and  the  eight  other  companies 
must  be  toiling  up.  But  they  would  have  to  appear  in  the 
interval  of  the  Imperialists'  downward  rush.  Driscoll  turned 
to  his  bugler.  "Blow,  Hanks!  Blow  like  the  very  devil!" 

The  blast  sounded  long  and  shrill,  like  a  plaintive  wail.  The 
six  hundred  pumped  lead  up  the  hill  mechanically,  but  their 
hearts  were  echoing  the  clarion's  cry  for  help,  and  rather  than 
on  the  foe  sweeping  down  over  the  rocks  to  crush  them,  their 
eyes  were  strained  on  the  sun-emblazoned  line  against  the  sky. 
But  the  parson  was  a  man.  At  last,  just  over  the  slope's  crest, 
a  head  appeared,  a  cherubic  head  with  spectacles,  and  two 
arms  waved  for  haste  to  others  behind.  And  instantly  more 
heads  bobbed  up,  and  more  yet,  until  the  jagged  line  was  fairly 
encrusted  with  mouse-colored  sombreros,  like  barnacles  on  a 
stranded  keel. 

From  where  they  were  the  new  comers  began  their  work, 
lying  flat  on  their  stomachs.  Once  over  the  ridge,  down  each 
man  fell  and  joined  the  chorus  of  musketry.  Their  fusilade 
thickened  to  a  blanket  of  flame,  closely  woven.  The  host 
rushing  down  the  slope  forgot  the  tales  that  were  told  of  the 


398  The  Missourian 

marvelous  sixteen-shot  rifles.  They  thought  instead  that  an 
army  of  Republicans,  and  not  a  man  less,  were  upon  their 
flank.  For  how  else  could  volleys  be  so  well  sustained,  how 
else  so  deadly?  And  how  fast  they  themselves  were  dropping! 
The  thing  was  not  like  bullets,  but  as  the  earth  caving  under 
them.  The  charge  turned  to  panic.  They  plunged  on  down- 
ward, indeed,  and  even  sheer  into  the  cross  fire  of  Driscoll's 
six-shooters  and  the  one  howitzer.  But  it  was  headlong  flight. 
At  the  trench  they  did  not  stop  to  grapple,  but  fought  their  way 
through  and  fled  on  down  the  hill,  on  across  the  grassy  plain, 
nor  paused  until  they  had  crowded  pell-mell  into  the  main  Im- 
perialist army  drawn  up  before  the  Alameda. 

Maximilian  and  his  resplendent  staff  were  there  at  the  Ala- 
meda. The  Emperor  was  perhaps  less  astounded  than  they. 

"Ai,  general,  if  you  had  known  how  Tampico  fell!"  he  said  to 
Miramon. 

Yet  neither  was  actually  dismayed.  The  Cimatario  and 
five  thousand  men  had  succumbed  to  a  thousand  or  fifteen 
hundred  daredevils.  It  was  hard  enough  to  believe,  in  all  con- 
science. But  the  daredevils  could  be  dislodged,  and  they  must 
be,  at  once.  Miramon's  orders  rose  sharply  and  quick,  and 
the  Empire  sprang  to  obey.  The  Alameda  batteries  were 
trained  on  the  hill,  and  a  few  moments  later  the  guns  on  the 
roof  of  the  La  Cruz  monastery  were  also.  At  the  same  time, 
the  army,  the  entire  Imperialist  reserve,  battalion  after  battalion 
in  close,  hurried  ranks,  set  out  across  the  grassy  plain,  straight 
toward  the  Cimatario's  front  slope.  Foot,  horse,  artillery,  the 
concentrated  might  of  the  Austrian's  sceptre,  was  being  hurled 
against  a  handful  of  jaded  warriors.  Maximilian  flushed  with 
something  like  shame  at  the  thought. 

Back  on  the  slope  Driscoll  cried,  "No,  no,  keep  to  the 
trenches,  you  fellows!  This  ain't  our  promenade." 

And  soon,  when  screaming  comets  began  to  fill  the  air 
and  burst  around  them,  they  were  glad  of  the  ditches.  There 


Blood  and  Noise— What  Else? 


399 


they  waited,  smoking,  spitting  tobacco  against  the  torrid 
rocks,  but  with  sullen  eyes  on  the  army  moving  nearer  and 
nearer.  Where,  all  this  morning,  was  Escobedo,  who,  with 
his  thousands  of  Republicans  on  the  north  of  the  town  had 
taken  no  thought  of  the  Republican  stress  on  the  south  ?  He 
had  not  fired  a  shot.  Yet  surely  he  must  know  by  this  time. 
But  no  matter.  Over  a  hundred  outlaws  were  left,  and  nearly 
a  thousand  Grays.  Missourians,  brigands,  and  guerrillas  of 
Michoacan,  they  were  a  dangerous  blend. 

"Got  a  match,  Harry?"  asked  Driscoll  of  the  Kansan,  as  he 
filled  his  cob  pipe. 

They  had  to  wait,  you  see.  Yet  haste  was  all  they  would 
have  begged  of  the  advancing  Imperialist  host. 

The  red  jackets  of  the  Dragoons — the  few  that  were  left — 
brightly  dotted  the  van  of  the  attacking  thousands.  On  either 
side  rode  the  Second  and  Fourth  Lanciers.  Behind  tramped 
the  battalions  of  Iturbide,  of  Celaya,  and  regiments  of  the  line. 
They  gained  the  foot  of  the  hill  and  the  cavalry  were  dismount- 
ing before  they  drew  fire.  The  baptism  had  a  sharpshooter 
deadliness,  even  at  that  distance,  but  the  Imperialists  waited 
tentatively.  No,  there  was  but  one  volley.  When  the  second 
came,  it  was  only  after  an  interval  long  enough  for  reloading. 
Officers  and  men  glanced  at  one  another  more  hopefully.  The 
terrified  fugitives  were  of  course  mistaken,  they  thought.  For 
the  force  above  could  not  be  large,  nor  yet  possess  the  mys- 
terious sixteen-shot  rifles.  The  assurance  gave  the  buoyancy 
of  relief.  To  charge  against  carbines  that  made  each  man  as 
sixteen  were  uncanny,  too  much  like  challenging  the  Unknown. 
But  a  thousand  men  who  fired  only  every  two  or  three  minutes 
— an  antagonist  like  that  was  quite  well  known  to  their  philoso- 
phy. So  breathing  hard,  they  valiantly  marched  up  the  hill. 
They  suffered  cruelly  under  the  scattered  fusillades,  yet  were 
not  materially  resisted.  At  last  they  were  near  enough,  and 
the  bugles  sounded  for  the  final  rush. 


400  The  Missourian 

Now  what  was  odd,  the  Republicans  stopped  firing  alto- 
gether. But  they  were  waiting  for  shorter  range,  and  a  moment 
later,  at  a  hundred  paces,  their  reopening  volley  had  all  the 
clockwork  dispatch  of  platoon  drill.  Yet  the  Imperialists  took 
the  dose  as  a  thing  expected,  and  sprang  over  their  wounded 
to  gain  the  trenches.  They  required  only  the  lull  of  reloading. 
But  instantly  a  second  volley  prolonged  the  first.  The  column 
staggered,  and  faces  blanched.  In  a  sudden  despair  they 
realized  the  enemy's  tactics,  for  the  enemy  did  have  those  ter- 
rible rifles,  after  all.  From  the  trenches  a  low  sheet  of  flame 
had  spread,  searing  the  breasts  of  rank  after  rank  that  pressed 
against  its  edge.  Scarlet-coated  Dragoons,  the  last  of  them, 
flecked  the  rocks,  and  over  them  fell  green  uniformed  troopers, 
as  grass  will  cover  a  bloody  field,  and  the  Municipal  Guards, 
swaying  up  from  behind,  paid  out  a  sprinkling  of  blue — a  ghastly 
pousse-cafe,  as  one  grim  jester  described  it  afterward.  The 
long  massed  lines  wavered. 

"They've  stopped,  they've  stopped!"  cried  Rodrigo.  "Now 
we'll  close  with  them,  eh,  senor — por  Dios,  now!" 

"All  you  fellows,"  shouted  Driscoll,  "just  fill  your  rifles 
while  they  wait.  Stopped  nothing,  Rod!  And  anyhow,  who'd 
hold  the  hill  if  we  left  it  ?  Who  ?  " 

The  answer  came  at  once,  and  in  dramatic  form.  One  of 
the  pickets  stationed  on  the  flank  ran  among  them. 

"There's  another  big  slew  of  'em  a-coming!"  he  yelled 
excitedly.  "Yonder,  over  yonder!" 

Driscoll  rose  and  followed  the  man  to  the  east  slope.  From 
there  he  beheld  an  overpowering  force,  advancing  diagonally 
across  the  llano  below.  It  came  by  the  Carretas  road,  which 
skirted  Queretaro  on  that  side,  and  it  was  hurrying  toward  the 
Cimatario.  The  colonel  of  Grays  watched  them  anxiously 
through  his  glasses. 

"Shucks,"  he  said  at  last,  "the  fight's  over.  It's  Escobedo. 
He's  sent  his  reserve.  Don't  you  see  those  black  shakos,  Jim, 


Blood  and  Noise — What  Else  ?  401 

and  those  gray  coats  ?  They're  the  Cazadores  de  Galeana,  and 
the  best  yet.  Now  we'll  have  someone  to  hold  the  hill!" 

But  getting  back  to  the  trenches,  Driscoll  saw  that  the  help 
might  not  come  soon  enough.  For  however  the  Imperialists 
squandered  their  lives,  they  would  yet  overcrowd  death.  Some 
had  already  gained  the  first  trench,  a;nd  were  there  engaged 
hand  to  hand,  with  sabre  and  pistol.  In  the  trenches  above 
the  Grays  steadily  fed  the  molten  flame.  But  Driscoll  chose 
the  in-fighting,  and  naturally  became  himself  the  centre  of  the 
hottest  patch. 

"Help's  here!  in  five  minutes,  just  five  minutes!"  he  spoke 
right  and  left  to  his  men,  as  a  carpenter  will  converse  and  ham- 
mer at  the  same  time.  For  the  outnumbered  Grays  it  was  the 
help  arrived  already. 

The  Imperialist  cannon  had  of  necessity  ceased  firing,  so 
what  should  be  the  consternation  of  the  attacking  column  to 
have  a  shell  fall  among  them  from  the  rear!  All  eyes  turned, 
and  a  murmur  of  panic  rose.  It  was  not  that  their  own  bat- 
teries had  made  a  mistake,  but  that  there  had  not  been  any  mis- 
take. The  reserve  sent  by  Escobedo,  hearing  the  battle,  had 
wheeled  and  rushed  straight  down  the  centre  of  the  plain  on  the 
chance  of  giving  quicker  assistance.  Once  in  sight  of  the 
trenches,  though  still  considerably  to  the  right  of  the  hill,  they 
had  unlimbered  a  gun,  while  cavalry  and  infantry  pushed  on  to 
the  rescue.  Not  to  be  caught  between  trenches  and  plain,  the 
Imperialists  acted  with  soldiery  decision.  Their  clarions 
sounded  retreat. 

"Now  it's  our  turn!"  shouted  Driscoll,  and  with  the  parson 
and  the  Kansan  and  the  outlaw  chief,  and  guerrillas  and 
Missourians  pouring  out  of  their  ditches,  he  chased  down  hill 
the  concentrated  might  of  an  Empire.  So  closely  was  that 
chasing  performed  that  pistol  flashes  burned  into  standards 
and  uniforms. 

Maximilian  and  Miramon  and  the  high  officers  of  the  realm 


402  The  Missourian 

were  still  at  their  post  of  observation  in  front  of  the  Alameda. 
For  the  third  time  that  morning  they  faced  Imperial  cohorts 
hurled  back  upon  them  by  a  man  named  Driscoll.  Miramon 
reproached  himself  bitterly.  His  plans  to  intercept  Escobedo's 
reserve  on  the  north  had  failed.  The  Emperor's  pallid  fea- 
tures were  drawn  with  the  tensity  of  a  big  loser.  Yet  in  the 
soft  blue  eyes  there  flashed  a  chivalrous  wonder  at  an  enemy's 
valiant  deed. 

On  the  llano  fugitives  and  pursuers  mingled  as  one  in  tne 
human  wave  of  confusion.  Escobedo's  cavalry  had  overtaken 
the  melee,  and  blended  with  the  rear  of  the  fleeing  column,  until 
it  seemed  likely  that  both  must  enter  the  town  together.  But 
a  charge  of  grape,  fired  obliquely  from  the  Alameda,  mowed  a 
path  between  them — a  Spartan  business,  for  it  reaped  Imperial- 
ists among  Republicans.  However,  a  second  and  third  blast 
were  better  gauged,  and  these  carpeted  the  new  alley- way  with 
Republican  bodies.  Also,  the  Imperialists  were  re-forming, 
and  under  a  withering  fire  the  little  band  of  victors  had  to  draw 
back  to  the  Cimatario. 

As  Escobedo's  reserve  occupied  the  hill,  Driscoll  marched 
his  own  force  behind  the  same  to  get  his  horses  there.  But 
the  mustangs  of  the  brigands  had  disappeared,  and  far  to  the 
southwest  were  the  brigands  themselves,  moving  swiftly  over 
the  plain  toward  the  mountains.  They  hardly  numbered  two- 
score  now,  and  at  that  distance  seemed  a  few  men  herding  a 
drove  of  empty  saddles.  The  late  indignant  patriot,  Don 
Rodrigo,  had  changed  back  to  outlaw.  As  another  Cid,  he 
might  have  looked  for  pardon  from  a  grateful  country,  but 
possibly  he  feared  the  Roman  justice  of  Juarez  too  much  to 
risk  it.  Besides,  a  man  will  not  lightly  give  up  his  career. 
That  same  night  Rodrigo  lay  again  among  the  sierras,  quite 
ready  for  the  first  bullion  convoy  or  beautiful  marchioness 
passing  by. 

Shells  and  minie  balls  were  yet  dropping  perfunctorily,  and 


Blood  and  Noise — "What  Else  ?  403"" 

the  llano  between  hill  and  town  was  still  a  dangerous  place 
enough,  but  scattered  here  and  there  were  a  few  of  both  sides 
looking  for  their  wounded,  and  often  themselves  going  down 
before  the  aim  of  sharpshooters.  Stiffening  bodies  lay  under 
the  trampled  grass  in  every  varied  horror  of  mutilation,  and 
glassy  eyes  peered  unseeing  upward  through  the  stalks,  like 
the  absurd  and  ghastly  contrast  of  a  horrible  dream.  But 
among  them  were  the  stricken  living  in  as  varied  an  agony,  of 
raw  wounds  stung  by  gnats,  of  pain  cutting  deep  to  vitality, 
of  thirst,  of  the  broiling  sun,  of  a  buzzing  fly,  or  of  an  intoler- 
able loneliness  there  with  death.  Groans  rose  over  the 
plain,  and  guided  the  searchers.  Driscoll  had  already  found 
many  of  his  men  in  this  way.  Once  he  heard  his  own  name. 
The  voice  was  weak,  but  there  was  something  vaguely  familiar 
to  it,  and  involuntarily  he  held  his  pistol  against  treachery  as 
he  parted  the  grass  and  revealed  a  wounded  man  at  his  feet.  It 
was  a  piteously  famished  body  that  raised  itself  a  little  by  one 
hand.  It  was  a  soul- tenanted  death-head  that  crooked  grue- 
somely  down  on  the  shoulder  and  lifted  its  eyes  to  Driscoll's  in 
greeting.  They  were  glowing  coals,  those  eyes,  glowing  with 
the  virile  fire  of  twenty  men,  however  wasted  the  face  or  tightly 
drawn  the  yellow  parchment  skin. 

"Murgie!" 

Driscoll's  exclamation  was  a  shudder  rather  than  the  sur- 
prise of  recognition.  What  could  it  be  that  had  grown  so — so 
terrible  in  the  weazen,  craven  miser!  And  to  find  the  abject 
little  coward  on  a  battlefield,  and  wounded!  An  occasional 
bomb  even  then  screeched  overhead.  And  he  was  clothed  in 
uniform,  a  soldier's  uniform,  he,  Don  Anastasio! 

"Gra.-cious!"  Driscoll  muttered. 

More  and  more  stupefying,  the  uniform  was  not  Republican, 
but  Imperialist.  There  were  the  green  pantaloons  with  red 
stripes,  the  red  jacket,  the  white  shoes,  the  white  kepi,  of  the 
Batallon  del  Emperador — a  ludicrous  martial  combination,  but 


'404  The  Missourian 

pathetic  on  an  aged,  withered  man.  The  Batallon  del  Em- 
perador?  Driscoll  remembered.  They  were  the  troop  that 
had  surrounded  Maximilian  during  the  recent  battle  in  front  of 
the  Alameda,  and  Murguia  had  fallen  on  the  very  spot.  The 
venomous  Republican  was  then  become  one  of  the  Emperor's 
bodyguard ! 

As  the  Republican,  so  also  was  the  coward  gone.  The 
gaunt  little  old  Mexican  seemed  oblivious  of  peril,  as  fever 
blinds  one  to  every  nearest  emotion.  There  was  even  a  grim- 
ness  in  the  shifting  gaze".  And  a  certain  merciless  capacity, 
born  of  unyielding  resolve — born  of  an  obsession,  one  might 
say — was  there  also.  He  could  have  been  some  great  military 
leader,  cruel  and  of  iron,  if  those  eyes  were  all.  Little  shriveled 
Don  Anastasio,  he  had  no  sense  of  present  danger,  nor  of  the 
red  blood  trickling. 

"That's  bad,  that,"  said  Driscoll,  overcoming  his  repug- 
nance. "Here,  I'll  get  you  taken  right  along  to  our  surgeons." 

But  Murguia  shrank  from  the  offer  as  though  he  feared  the 
Republicans  of  all  monsters. 

"No,  no,"  he  protested  feebly,  yet  with  an  odd  ring  of  com- 
mand. "Some  one  on — on  my  side  will  find  me." 

"But  you  called?"  Driscoll  insisted. 

"Yes,  you — have  heard  from  Rodrigo  Galan?  He  was  to 
have  sent  you  a — to  have  sent  you  something  for  me." 

More  and  more  of  mystery!  Rodrigo  had  said  that  Driscoll 
would  see  Murguia  to  give  him  the  ivory  cross,  and  so  it  had 
come  to  pass.  But  the  battle,  the  old  man's  wound,  surely 
these  things  were  not  prearranged  only  that  a  trinket  might  be 
delivered. 

"How  was  I  to  see  you?"  Driscoll  asked  abruptly. 

Murguia  started,  and  there  was  the  old  slinking  evasion. 

"There,  there,"  said  Driscoll  hastily.  "Don't  move  that 
way,  you'll  bleed  to  death!  Here,  take  it,  here  it  is." 

Murguia  clutched  the  ivory  thing  in  his  bony  fingers. 


Blood  and  Noise — What  Else?  405 

"Maria,  Maria  de  la  Luz,"  he  fell  to  murmuring,  gazing 
upon  the  cross  as  though  it  were  her  poor  crushed  face.  In 
the  old  days  she  had  made  him  forget  avarice  or  fear,  and  now, 
before  this  token  of  her,  the  hardness  died  out  of  his  eyes  and 
they  swam  in  tears.  Driscoll  gazed  down  on  him  pityingly. 
The  old  man  was  palsied.  He  trembled.  There  passed  over 
him  the  same  spasm,  so  silent,  so  terrible,  as  on  the  night  of  her 
death,  when  he  had  sat  at  the  court  martial,  his  head  buried 
in  his  arm. 

"Rod  said  you  would  want  it,"  Driscoll  spoke  gently.  Then 
he  moved  away.  An  Imperialist  officer  was  approaching 
over  the  field  who  would  bring  the  help  which  Murguia  refused 
to  accept  of  the  Republicans. 

Driscoll  looked  back  once.  The  Imperialist  officer^  was 
carrying  Murguia  into  the  town.  He  was  a  large  man,  and  had 
red  hair.  His  regimentals  were  gorgeous.  There  seemed  to  be 
something  familiar  about  him,  too.  Greatly  puzzled,  Driscoll 
unslung  his  glasses,  and  through  them  he  recognized  Colonel 
Miguel  Lopez.  Lopez,  the  former  colonel  of  Dragoons,  now 
commanded  the  Imperialist  reserve,  quartered  in  the  monastery 
of  La  Cruz  around  the  person  of  their  sovereign.  But  Lopez 
had  once  condemned  Murguia  to  death.  A  strange  solicitude, 
thought  Driscoll,  in  such  a  high  and  mighty  person  for  a 
little,  insignificant,  useless  warrior  as  poor  Murgie.  A  strange, 
a  very  strange  solicitude,  and  Driscoll  could  not  get  it  out  of 
his  head. 


CHAPTER  XV 

OF  ALL  NEWS  THE  MOST  SPITEFUL 

"  O  poor  and  wretched  ones! 
That,  feeble  in  the  mind's  eye,  lean  your  trust 
Upon  unstaid   perverseness." — Dante. 

HER  gestures,  her  every  word,  were  an  effervescence.  There 
was  something  near  hysteria  in  the  bright  flashes  of  her  wit. 
However  gay,  joyous,  cynical,  Jacqueline  may  have  seemed 
to  herself,  to  Berthe,  terrified  though  the  girl  was,  Jacqueline's 
mood  was  a  sham. 

"The  frisson,  oh,  those  few  exquisite  seconds  of  emotion,  eh 
Berthe?"  she  exclaimed.  "Pursued  by  robbers — the  chase — 
the  rescue — and  the  jolting,  the  jolting  that  took  our  breaths! 
Why,  Berthe,  what  more  would  you  have?  Helas,  to  be  over 
so  quickly!  And  here  we  are,  left  alone  in  our  coach,  robbers 
gone,  rescuers  gone!  Berthe,  do  you  know,  I  believe  they 
compared  notes  and  decided  we  weren't  worth  it.  But  I 
should  have  thought,"  she  went  on  in  mock  bitterness,  "I 
should  indeed,  that  at  least  our  Fra  Diavolo  would  have  been 
more  gallant,  even  if " 

"Even  if?"  prompted  Berthe,  then  bit  her  lip. 

"Even — Oh  Berthe,  fi  done,  to  catch  me  so  because  I  was 
wandering! — even  if  one  could  expect  no  such  gallantry  from 
the  Chevalier  de  Missour-i.  There  now,  do  you  tell  Tobie 
to  drive  on " 

"But  mademoiselle " 

"Say  'Jeanne',"  the  marchioness  commanded,  stamping 
her  foot. 

406 


Of  All  News  the  Most  Spiteful  405 

"My  lady,"  the  girl  persisted,  but  added  with  affectionate 
earnestness,  "and  my  only  friend,  I  was  simply  going  to  say 
that  we  areTiot  deserted  after  all." 

"But  didn't  I  see  him  riding  away?" 

"Him,  yes,  but  look  out  of  the  window.  See,  he's  left  six 
or  eight — O — oh " 

It  was  a  joyful  cry,  which  got  smothered  at  once  in  con- 
fusion. Turning  quickly,  Jacqueline  beheld  a  little  Bretonne 
with  eyes  cast  down  and  cheeks  aflame.  Yet  even  then  Berthe 
gave  a  cosy  sigh  of  relief.  There  was  cannonading  not  far 
away.  They  had  just  been  taken  by  brigands,  and  as  sud- 
denly left  alone  on  the  road.  Thus  Jacqueline's  company  ever 
cost  her  many  a  tremor.  Yet  somehow  one  of  those  cheva- 
liers de  Missour-i  needed  only  to  appear,  and  she  felt  as  secure 
as  a  kitten  on  the  hearth  rug.  A  chevalier  de  Missour-i  had 
but  now  ridden  up  to  the  coach  door. 

"Berthe!"  whispered  Jacqueline  severely,  so  that  the  girl 
thought  her  dress  was  awry.  "Quick,  tuck  your  heart 
away  in  your  pocket.  It's  right  there  on  your  sleeve." 
Whereat  Berthe  employed  the  sleeve  to  hide  her  higher 
mantling  color. 

Jacqueline  turned  on  the  chevalier  at  the  window,  and  sur- 
veyed his  sleeve.  It  was  covered  with  dust,  but  Jacqueline's 
big  eyes  could  see  through  dust.  She  felt  about  her  a  subtle 
atmosphere  that  made  her  an  outsider. 

"Ah,  Monsieur  le  Troubadour?"  came  her  bantering  recog- 
nition. 

Mr.  Boone's  French  crowded  pleasantly  to  his  tongue  tip. 
"Mademoiselle,"  he  returned,  "and,"  he  added,  with  an  odd 
glance  toward  Berthe,  "Madame  1'Imperatrice,  uh — how 
goes  it?" 

Jacqueline's  lashes  raised  inquiringly,  until  she  remembered 
how  the  lank  gentleman  before  her,  with  the  tender  heart  of 
a  Quixote,  had  mistaken  Berthe  for  the  Empress,  months 


408  The  Missourian 

before  at  the  Cordova  plantation.  She  liked  him  somehow 
better  now  for  persisting  in  it. 

"Her  Imperial  Highness,"  she  explained,  very  soberly, 
"may  deign  presently  to  observe  that  you  are  here,  monsieur, 
though,"  as  you  see,  her  thoughts  are  far  away.  However, 
if  you  can  possibly  give  your  own  to  a  humbler  person,  to  my- 
self, dear  Troubadour,  I  should  very  much  like  to  know  what 
is  to  happen  next.  Use  fine  words,  if  you  must;  even  put  it 

into  verse,  only  tell  me "  With  an  impulsive  shove  she 

flung  open  the  door  and  stepped  into  the  road.  She  could 
still  see  Driscoll's  troop,  or  rather  the  cloud  of  dust,  speeding 
toward  Queretaro,  but  her  arm  swept  the  horizon  imper- 
sonally. "Only  tell  me,"  she  demanded,  "what's  happening 
now,  over  yonder?" 

"Pressing  business,  ma'am — mademoiselle,  and,"  Daniel 
lied  promptly,  "Colonel  Driscoll  wished  me  to  make  you  his 
excuses." 

"The  ministrels  of  old,  sir,"  said  Jacqueline,  "usually 
accompanied  their  more  gallant  fibs  with  a  harp." 

Her  vivacity  was  rising  fast,  and  for  some  reason,  Berthe 
darted  an  angry  look  of  warning  on  Mr.  Boone.  But  the  poor 
fellow  was  blind  to  Jacqueline's  jealousy  of  a  distant  con- 
flict, and  he  blundered  further. 

"Jack  Driscoll's  just  that  way,"  he  apologized  for  his  friend 
cheerfully.  "Abundai  dulcibus  vitiis — he's  chuck  full  of 
pleasant  faults.  When  there's  a  clash  of  arms  around,  let  the 
most  alluring  Peri  that  ever  wore  sweet  jessamine  glide  by, 
and — she  can  just  glide.  While  with  me " 

"I  see.  You  have  stayed.  But  I,  too,  like  battles,  monsieur. 
Tobie,  get  back  up  there  with  the  driver.  There's  no  admission 
charge,  I  imagine,  to  this  battle?" 

Boone  gladly  offered  to  take  them  for  a  nearer  view,  but  he 
saw  Berthe — his  eyes  were  never  elsewhere — shrink  involun- 
tarily. 


Of  All  News  the  Most  Spiteful  409 

"Stop,  arretaz!  Hey  there!"  he  ordered,  and  the  driver 
stopped. 

Jacqueline's  pretty  jaw  fell  in  wonder.  The  natural  order 
of  things  was  prevailing  over  the  artificial.  Social  status  to 
the  contrary  notwithstanding,  it  was  Berthe  who  commanded 
here,  and  not  Mile,  la  Marquise.  But  Jacqueline  was  happy 
in  it,  and  perhaps  a  little  envious  too.  Ah,  those  Missouriens! 
This  one,  who  would  rather  stay  than  fight!  And  that  other, 
who  was  now  fighting  for  quite  the  opposite  reason!  They 
had  a  capacity  for  variety,  those  Missouriens! 

It  was  much  later,  after  a  lunch  from  Jacqueline's  hampers 
under  the  nearest  trees,  and  after  the  distant  fusillades  had 
quieted  to  an  occasional  angry  spat,  that  the  ladies'  escort  of 
Gringo  Grays,  bearing  a  flag  of  truce,  set  out  with  their  charge 
toward  the  town.  Daniel  rode  beside  the  coach  window,  and 
the  flaps  of  the  old  hacienda  conveyance  were  drawn  aside. 
He  wondered  how  it  happened  that  the  hours  had  passed  so 
quickly.  He  would  not  believe  that  his  comrades  had  been 
fighting,  that  many  of  them  had  died,  so  blissfully  fleeting  were 
those  hours  to  himself. 

"It's  all  according,"  he  mused  profoundly. 

And  he  could  not  help  singing.  He  hummed  the  forlorn 
chanson  of  Joe  Bowers  of  the  State  of  Pike,  which  Bledsoe, 
then  lying  cold  and  stiff  under  a  mountain  howitzer,  had  so 
often  bellowed  forth. 

"  It  said  that  Sal  was  false  to  me, 

Her  love  for  me  had  fled, 
She's  got  married  to  a  butcher — 
The  butcher's  hair  was  red." 

But  he  sung  it  as  a  plaint,  yet  not  hopelessly,  and  Made- 
moiselle Berthe  was  the  maid  entreated  of  his  melody. 

The  sharpshooters  on  both  sides  paused  as  the  coach  drove 
into  the  little  sweet-scented  wood  that  was  called  the  Alameda, 
and  the  Missourians,  with  sabres  at  salute,  transferred  their 


4io  The  Missourian 

charge  to  the  Imperialists  crowding  around.  Among  the 
latter  were  some  of  Jacqueline's  own  countrymen,  and  those, 
in  starvation  and  defeat,  were  as  debonair  as  the  cadets  of 
Gascogne. 

"A  rose,  mademoiselle,"  said  one,  bowing  low.  He  had 
an  arm  bandaged,  and  his  sword  was  broken.  "An  early 
merciful  bullet  plucked  it  for  you,  so  that  it  fell  unhurt,  though 
the  petals  of  all  the  others  are  scattered  everywhere  among 
the  leaves,  among  the  fallen  branches,  among  the  shattered 
statues  of  our  classic  grove  here.  See,  like  the  rose  I  tender, 
you  come  among  us  poor  broken  soldiers  of  fortune.  I  think, 
dear  lady,  there  will  be  those  above  to  bless  you  for  it." 

Jacqueline  smiled  behind  her  tears.  "Always  a  French- 
man, eh,  mon  lieutenant?"  she  said. 

The  fragrance  of  the  place  was  smothered  under  gunpowder 
and  sluggish  fumes.  The  pleasant  drives,  the  grass,  the 
flowers,  were  trampled  by  gaunt  soldiers  bearing  their 
wounded,  but  the  young  officer  murmured  on  in  the  speech  of 
the  Alameda's  one  time  fashionable  promenade. 

"Who  is  that?"  she  interrupted. 

She  pointed  over  the  heads  around  her  to  a  man  bearing 
someone  off  the  late  bloody  field,  and  that  moment  staggering 
across  the  trenches  into  the  Alameda.  It  was  an  act  that 
moved  her,  for  the  rescuer  was  a  richly  uniformed  officer,  and 
the  other  but  a  common  soldier.  With  Berthe  close  behind, 
she  alighted  from  the  coach  and  hurried  forward  to  help. 
The  wounded  soldier's  face  lay  on  the  officer's  breast,  and 
she  saw  only  his  hair,  matted  and  very  white,  from  which  a 
rusty  brown  wig  had  partly  fallen.  But  more  to  the  purpose 
she  saw  that  he  was  bleeding,  and  the  callous  warriors  there 
knew  that  the  angels  of  the  siege  had  come  at  last. 

"Lay  him  in  my  carriage — but  carefully,  you!"  she  said, 
and  was  obeyed,  while  Berthe  deftly  fixed  cloaks  and  blankets 
around  the  withered  form.  Someone  mounted  with  Toby 


Of  All  News  the  Most  Spiteful  4II 

and  the  driver,  and  the  coach  rolled  slowly  away  to  the  hospital, 
leaving  behind  the  two  girls  staring  at  the  richly  uniformed 
officer,  and  the  officer  staring  tenfold  harder  at  them.  He 
was  a  large  man,  with  big  hands  and  feet,  and  for  a  Mexican 
he  had  a  mongrel  floridness  of  skin.  His  cap  was  in  his  hand, 
and  his  hair  was  red  and  thin.  Amazement  and  a  startled 
prying  anxiety  choked  his  utterance. 

"Now  then,  Colonel  Lopez,"  Jacqueline  addressed  him 
calmly,  "may  I  ask  you  the  way?  I  have  come  to  speak  with 
Maximilian." 

"La  Senorita  d-d'Aumerle!"  he  stuttered. 

"Faith,  no  other,  who  is  awaiting  your  pleasure,  senor." 

"You  come  from,  from — Mexico?" 

"But  hardly  to  chat  with  you  all  the  afternoon,  caballero." 

"From  Mexico!  From  the  capital!"  he  kept  repeating. 
The  man's  finger  nails  cracked  disagreeably,  and  his  features 
worked  in  an  extreme  of  agitation.  He  tried  to  fix  his  shifting 
blue  eyes  upon  first  one  and  then  the  other  of  the  two  girls,  as 
though  to  ferret  out  what  they  must  know.  "You  do  bring 
news  from  there  ?"  he  said  huskily.  "  What  of  Marquez  ?  Is 
he  coming  ?  Shall  we  have  the  aid  he  went  for  ?  When 

"Ah,  the  medal  for  military  valor!"  observed  Jacqueline. 
"Indeed,  mi  coronel,  all  must  acclaim  your  bravery,  as  well  as 
— your  loyalty.  But  take  me  to  your  beloved  Prince  Max,  for 
I  do  assure  you,  senor,  my  news  goes  not  without  myself." 

"He  visits  the  hospital  every  day,"  Lopez  advised  reluc- 
tantly. "  Perhaps  if  I  should  take  Your  Mercy  there  first " 

Passing  on  through  the  ravaged  Alameda,  they  entered  the 
streets  of  Queretaro. 

"Hear!"  Jacqueline  exclaimed.  "Such  a  quantity  of  vivas 
and  clarins  and  national  hymns  and  triumphant  dianas,  one 
would  imagine,  for  example,  that  there  had  been  a  great 
victory  ?  " 

"Eh?     Oh  yes,  or  a  hearty  breakfast,  senorita." 


4i2  The  Missourian 

Which  was  more  essential.  And  why  not?  Hope's  bright 
hue  blotted  out  emaciation.  They  had  broken  through  to 
food  that  day.  Bueno,  could  they  not  do  it  again?  Old 
croons  had  returned  to  their  stalls  and  accustomed  corners 
in  the  market  place,  and  as  in  days  of  peace  were  already 
squatted  before  corn  or  beans  heaped  on  the  stone  pavement 
in  portions  for  a  quartilla,  a  media,  or  a  real,  as  though  the 
pyramids  were  not  so  pitifully  little,  as  though  the  wholesale 
purchase  were  not  made  just  that  morning  in  heavy  terms  of 
blood. 

Behind  the  ponderous  Assyrian-like  church  of  Santa  Rosa, 
in  the  old,  half  ruined  monastery  and  garden,  was  the  hospital 
of  the  besieged.  A  stifling,  fetid  odor,  far  worse  than  of  drugs 
merely,  sickened  the  two  girls  as  a  foul  breath  when  they  passed 
with  their  guide  between  thick  walls  into  the  large,  over- 
crowded rooms.  Military  medical  service  was  not  yet  become 
an  institution  in  Mexico,  and  this  place  was  like  some  horrible 
ante-chamber  of  the  grave.  Every  cot  had  its  ghastly  transient, 
and  so  had  the  benches,  brought  here  from  the  different  plazas. 
More  and  more  wounded  were  arriving  constantly,  and  those 
found  to  be  still  alive  were  laid  on  the  flagstones  wherever 
space  for  a  blanket  remained.  But  in  spite  of  the  morning's 
fight,  in  spite  of  almost  daily  skirmishes  for  weeks  past,  the 
sick  outnumbered  all  others;  and  those  who  did  come  with 
wounds,  and  survived  them,  stayed  on  to  swell  the  longer  list. 
Men  tossed  in  fever,  craving  what  they  might  not  have,  a  cooling 
draught,  a  proper  food,  and  effective  medicine,  until,  with 
waking,  they  craved  an  easier  boon,  and  died.  But  the  hos- 
pital fever,  the  calenturas,  the  gangrene,  were  not  to  be  all. 
Out  of  the  diseased  air,  mid  the  fumes  of  pious  tapers,  the 
spectre  of  epidemic  was  taking  hideous  shape  over  the  many, 
many  upturned  faces.  The  spectre  was  the  tifo,  a  plague  more 
dreaded  in  high  altitudes  than  black  vomit  in  the  low. 

Jacqueline    found    Maximilian    bending    over    a    stricken 


Of  All  News  the  Most  Spiteful  413 

cavalry  officer.  The  Emperor  was  far  from  a  well  man,  and 
his  fair  skin  more  than  ever  contrasted  as  something  foreign 
and  lonely  among  the  swarthy  faces  on  every  side.  His  osten- 
tation was  now  simplicity,  as  befitted  a  monarch  in  camp.  He 
wore  neither  sword  nor  star.  His  garb  was  plain  charro,  in 
which  he  often  walked  among  citizens  and  soldiers,  inquiring 
about  rations,  or  requesting  a  light  for  his  cigar,  never 
minding  if  a  shell  burst  and  kicked  dust  over  him,  and  always 
affable,  always  ready  to  smile  and  praise.  It  was  a  role  that 
came  naturally  to  his  gentle  soul.  One  would  like  to  believe — 
if  one  could,  alas! — that  he  had  in  mind  no  kingly  precedent. 

Pausing  unseen,  Jacqueline  noted  tears  in  the  blue  eyes  as 
he  pinned  some  decoration  on  the  officer's  bloodstained  shirt. 
A  good  heart,  she  thought,  yet  ever  the  prince.  In  his  divine 
right  was  he  even  here,  presuming  to  send  a  dying  subject  to 
the  Sovereign  in  Heaven  with  a  "character,"  with  a  recom- 
mendation for  service  faithfully  done.  His  hands  trembled 
from  haste,  for  he  would  have  the  soldier  appear  before  that 
dread  Throne  above  as  a  Caballero  of  the  Mexican  Eagle.  In 
pity  for  them  both,  Jacqueline  asked  herself  what  precedence 
awaited  the  new  Caballero  of  the  Mexican  Eagle  in  a  'Court, 
not  Imperial,  but  Divine. 

Jacqueline  had  not  journeyed  her  perilous  way  out  of  simple 
friendship  for  a  desolate  prince,  but  could  she  have  foreseen 
how  his  eyes  lighted  with  gladness  to  behold  one  friend  who 
remembered,  in  sweet  charity  she  would  almost  have  come  for 
that  alone. 

"When  Your  Highness  has  finished  here,"  she  said,  glancing 
at  the  inquisitive  Lopez  near  her,  "or  whenever  I  can  speak 
with  Your  Highness  in  private 

There  was  beseeching  in  Maximilian's  quick  scrutiny  of 
her  face,  as  though  the  helpless  messenger  had  aught  of  power 
over  her  tidings.  "In — in  a  moment,  mademoiselle,"  he  said 
tremulously.  "I  always  see  the — new  ones,  before  I  go." 


414  The  Missourian 

The  "new  ones"  were  still  being  brought  in,  until  any  first 
aid  from  the  distracted  surgeons  was  of  the  most  casual — the 
ripping  of  bandaged  cloth,  a  knot  tied,  and  so  on  to  the  next. 
Followed  by  Lopez,  the  two  girls,  and  several  officers  of  the 
hospital  staff,  Maximilian  passed  from  ward  to  ward.  But 
Jacqueline's  hand  seemed  always  to  be  threading  a  needle, 
or  holding  a  ligature,  or  lightly  touching  a  hot  forehead,  and 
in  every  case  the  surgeon  would  nod  quickly,  gratefully,  as  to 
a  fellow  craftsman.  Berthe  the  while  gazed  in  tender  wonder 
on  her  calm  mistress,  and  nerved  herself  someway  to  help  also. 

And  so  they  came  to  the  withered  form  in  brave  red  coat, 
and  green  pantaloon  whom  Lopez  had  carried  off  the  field. 
One  of  the  nurses  had  placed  a  handkerchief  over  his  face, 
because  of  the  stinging  flies,  but  Jacqueline  recognized  the 
thin  white  hair  and  the  twisted  wig  as  of  the  old  man  whom  she 
had  sent  ahead  in  her  coach.  At  first  he  seemed  to  be  dead,  for 
he  lay  very  still  on  the  floor,  though  a  surgeon  was  probing 
his  wound,  and  his  blood  was  fast  filling  the  bowl  held  by  the 
nurse.  But  now  and  again,  the  straining  cords  in  his  emaciated 
wrist  twitched  with  the  protest  of  life.  Maximilian  stooped 
to  raise  the  handkerchief.  Lopez  made  a  movement  to  prevent, 
but  restrained  the  impulse  as  useless.  And  then  Maximilian 
revealed  the  gaunt,  leaden  features  of  Anastasio  Murgula,  the 
father  of  Maria  de  la  Luz. 

Jacqueline  fell  back  with  bloodless  lips.  The  father  of 
that  dead  girl — and  Maximilian!  They  were  face  to  face, 
these  two!  But  the  Emperor's  expression  was  of  pity  only. 
He  sank  to  his  knees,  the  better  to  make  the  wounded  man 
understand  the  words  of  comfort  on  his  lips.  For  Jacqueline, 
the  horror  of  it  chilled  her.  Surely,  surely,  she  thought,  the 
hidden  tragedy  must  now  unmask;  because  of  its  very  awful- 
ness,  it  must!  That  the  prince  should  be  thus  oblivious  of 
such  a  knowledge,  and  yet  kneeling  there,  made  the  scene 
ghastly  beyond  words. 


Of  All  News  the  Most  Spiteful  415 

"I  remember  him,"  said  Maximilian  softly,  looking  up  to 
the  others.  "  One  of  your  orderlies,  Colonel  Lopez,  I  believe  ? 
Of  course  I  remember  him,  for  I  see  him  often.  He  is  always 
near  me.  Even  to-day,  on  the  llano,  during  the  thickest  of 
the  battle,  there  he  was  at  my  stirrup,  and  there  he  must  have 
fallen,  in  humble,  unquestioning  loyalty." 

Jacqueline  drew  back  in  relief,  and  she  imagined  that 
Lopez  did  also.  Maximilian  had  forgotten  the  hacendado 
utterly. 

With  a  grunt  of  satisfaction  the  surgeon  drew  forth  his 
forceps  from  the  wound  and  dropped  a  bullet  to  the  floor. 
Next  he  gently  rolled  the  patient  over  on  his  back,  and  then  it 
was  that  Jacqueline  saw  in  Murguia's  hand,  in  the  hand 
that  had  been  under  him,  a  little  ivory  cross.  Fainting, 
unconscious,  he  still  clutched  it,  from  Driscoll's  leaving  him 
on  the  battlefield  until  the  present  moment.  By  now  the 
stains  of  his  child's  blood  were  washed  away  in  his  own. 
Jacqueline's  quick  eyes  caught  an  inscription  on  the  gold 
mounting,  and  leaning  close  she  read  the  dead  girl's  name, 
"Maria  de  la  Luz." 

With  the  gripping  of  the  bullet  and  its  extraction,  or  pos- 
sibly at  the  sound  of  a  voice — Maximilian's — the  old  man's 
eyes  opened,  and  held  the  Emperor's  in  a  deathly  stare.  Jac- 
queline watched  the  piercing  beads  grow  smaller  and  smaller 
in  their  cavernous  sockets,  and  all  the  while  they  seemed  to 
concentrate  their  intense  fire.  The  others,  except  Lopez, 
thought  it  delirium,  but  Jacqueline  would  have  named  it  the 
very  blackest  hate.  "This  man  will  live!"  she  said  to  herself, 
and  shuddered. 

Maximilian,  seeing  consciousness  returned,  spoke  cheerily. 
"Ah,  doctor,  you  will  have  him  well  and  sound  within  a  week, 
I  know?  Look  to  it,  sir;  a  heroic  veteran  like  this  cannot 
be  spared." 

A  strange  distortion  wrapped  the  visage  of  suffering.  "  Could 


416  The  Missourian 

that  be  a  smile?"  Jacqueline  wondered.  But  the  Imperial 
party  took  its  leave,  and  the  tragedy  lurking  beneath  was  not 
revealed,  as  yet. 

Through  the  throng  waiting  outside  the  hospital  to  acclaim 
him  again  as  a  prince  victorious,  Maximilian  led  the  two  girls 
to  their  coach,  and  went  with  them  to  the  convent  of  Santa 
Clara,  where  he  asked  that  they  be  received  as  guests  by  the 
sisters.  Here,  in  the  comfortless  parloir  of  the  retreat,  he 
learned  the  reason  of  Jacqueline's  daring  journey  from  the 
capital. 

"I  bring  Your  Highness,"  said  she,  "the  most  spiteful  news 
my  feeble  sex  can  ever  bring." 

Again  the  involuntary  plea  for  fair  tidings  swept  his  face. 

"And,  and  that  is,  mademoiselle?" 

'"I  told  you  so.'" 

Maximilan's  cheeks  paled  to  the  marble  whiteness  of  his 
brow.  He  had  just  heard  the  answer  to  the  one  question,  to 
the  one  hope,  of  all  Queretaro. 

"You,  you  mean  Marquez?" 

"Yes."  And  then  she  told  him,  and  seeing  how  stricken 
he  was,  her  exasperation  at  his  vain  incapacity  changed  to 
pity  for  his  breaking  pride — which  may  be  called  his  breaking 
heart. 

"But  mademoiselle,  I  gave  my  empire  into  his  keeping," 
he  protested,  as  though  such  trust  in  a  man  of  itself  proved 
that  man's  constancy.  But  the  messenger,  but  Truth,  would 
not  recant. 

"Then,"  moaned  the  Emperor  suddenly,  "Marquez  is  not 
coming  back?" 

"Nor  ever  meant  to,  sire.  Listen,  Your  Highness  made  him 
lieutenant  of  the  Empire,  and  sent  him  to  the  capital  for  aid. 
Bien,  he  turned  out  the  ministers.  He  broke  into  homes,  and 
pillaged  even  the  stanchest  Imperialists.  He  heard  that 
Puebla  was  besieged  by  a  Liberal  general,  Porfirio  Diaz,  so 


Of  All  News  the  Most  Spiteful  41; 

instead  of  coming  here,  Marquez  marches  all  his  army  down 
there.  You  will  observe,  sire,  that  he  wanted  the  road  kept 
open  to  Vera  Cruz." 

"But  why?    Tell  me!" 

"Ma  foi,  to  sell  the  capital  more  easily.  In  any  case  to  be 
able  to  save  himself." 

"Sell  the  capital?" 

"Just  a  little  patience,  sire.  Now  what  did  Diaz  do,  but 
take  Puebla  by  assault  before  Marquez  could  arrive?  Then 
he  turned  on  Marquez,  and  Marquez  turned  and  ran.  Oui, 
oui,  sire,  he  ran,  ran  like  the  little  ugly,  skulking  Leopard  that 
he  is.  To  cross  a  creek,  he  filled  it  with  all  the  ammunition, 
and  kept  on  running,  leaving  his  army  defenseless  behind  him. 
Groan  if  you  must,  sire;  others  have  died  in  groans.  But 
the  Leopard  had  done  this  kind  of  thing  before,  it  should  have 
been  remembered.  He  got  back  safely  though,  and  squandered 
the  army  that  might  have  relieved  Queretaro  to  do  it.  Mon 
Dieu,  what  that  panic  must  have  been!  One  entire  battalion 
surrendered  to  fifty  guerrillas.  Yet  the  Austrian  cavalry, 
the  Hungarians,  and  some  others  fought,  fought  with  their 
sabres,  and  won  victories  too.  Helas,  they  only  proved  what 
might  have  been.  They  only  proved  how  Marquez,  if  he  had 
not  hesitated,  might  perhaps  have  saved  Puebla  and  destroyed 
the  Liberals.  As  it  was,  they  could  only  retreat,  and  hardly 
two  thousand  of  them,  ragged  and  bleeding  and  filthy,  straggled 
back  into  Mexico  during  the  next  few  days.  Now  they  are 
besieged  there.  Oui,  oui,  besieged,  by  Diaz,  by  the  army  of 
the  East,  by  twelve  thousand  Republicans,  formerly  called 
brigands.  And  inside  is  the  Leopard,  snarling  as  ever  with  his 
regency  of  terror.  Oh  no,  he  will  not  come  to  Queretaro. 
Bontd  divine,  he  cannot.  Nor  would  he.  He  still  holds  the 
capital — for  sale." 

"No,  no,  mademoiselle,  there  you  wrong  him,  surely.  Or 
tell  me,  then,  who  would  buy  ?  " 


418  The  Missourian 

"Probably  no  one.  At  least  not  Santa  Anna.  The  buyer 
must  have  an  army." 

"My  friend,  this  is  a  cruel  jest." 

"Earnest  enough,  parbleu,  to  make  the  Leopard  forget 
Quere*taro,  once  he  was  safely  away." 

"Then  why  doesn't  he  sell  out  to  Diaz?" 

Jacqueline's  eyes  snapped  contemptuously.  "Young  Diaz," 
she  replied,  "is  not  a  fighter  to  buy  what  he  can  take.  It's 
only  a  question  of  a  few  weeks." 

"Then  by  all  that's  mysterious,  who  would  buy?  7  can- 
not." 

"Of  course  you  cannot.  That  is  why  Marquez  wants  you 
out  of  the  way,  sire.  So  he  left  you  here.  The  Liberals  will 
attend  to  that  for  him." 

"Then  who  will  buy?    Who?    Who?" 

The  blood  shot  into  the  girl's  cheeks,  and  one  small  hand 
clenched  tightly. 

"France — possibly,"  she  said. 

The  Emperor  started  as  from  an  acute  shock.  His  thoughts 
raced  backward,  then  forward,  gathering  the  whole  heinous 
truth  about  the  perfidy  of  Marquez. 

"And  I,"  Jacqueline  added  calmly,  though  she  was  still 
flushed,  "I  have  forwarded  his  offer  to  Napoleon." 

"You,  mademoiselle?    You,  an  accessory?" 

"To  Your  Imperial  Highness's  downfall?  Ah  no,  sire! 
Ypur  Highness  is  no  longer  a  factor.  Your  August  Majesty 
will  be  eliminated  absolutely  before  Napoleon  can  reply  to  my 
despatch.  As  I  said,  the  Liberals  around  Queretaro  will  attend 
to  that.  Your  Highness  has  merely  delayed  the  profit  my 
country  might  have  had  from  his  abdication.  Meantime 
Your  Highness  himself  has  made  his  own  ruin  inevitable. 
But  I,  sire,  I  would  not  see  Marquez,  nor  receive  a  word 
from  him,  until  we  were  actually  besieged  in  the  capital, 
and  he  beyond  the  hope  of  coming  to  Your  Highness  here. 


Of  All  News  the  Most  Spiteful  419 

Now  then,  if  Marquez  only  holds  out  until  the  army  of 
France  returns " 

A  deep  sigh  interrupted  her.  "No  longer  a  factor,"  mur- 
mured the  Emperor.  Thus  quickly,  then,  could  the  world 
take  up  its  affairs  again  after  his  elimination! 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  cried  suddenly,  generously,  "you  are — 
superb!  Dear  little  Frenchwoman,  you  are,  you  are!" 

"Poof!"  said  Jacqueline.  "But  don't  you  see,  sire,"  she 
hurried  on  eagerly,  "that  we  will  have  to  fight  the  Americans? 
Yes,  yes,  then  they  can  no  longer  say  they  drove  us  out." 

"Indeed  they  cannot.  And  I,  among  the  first,  and  the  most 
heartily,  do  wish  you  a  warlike  answer  from  that  firebrand  of  a 
Napoleon.  But  tell  me,  why  do  you  come  to  Quer&aro? 
How  did  you  come  ? ;> 

"  How  ?  Easily.  All  the  guerrilla  bands — except  one,  which 
I  escaped — are  concentrated  either  here  or  with  Diaz." 

"And  Marquez  let  you  come,  you  who  are  so  important  to 
him  now?" 

"As  though  he  could  help  it,  parbleu!  My  message  to  Napo- 
leon was  in  my  own  cipher,  and  after  he  had  sent  it  by  a  scout 
to  Vera  Cruz,  I  informed  him  that  in  it  I  had  directed  Napoleon 
to  send  his  answer  to  me  at  Quere"taro.  Otherwise  Marquez 
would  have  kept  me  in  prison  rather  than  let  me  go.  But  as 
it  was,  he  assisted  me  through  the  Republican  lines  by  a  secret 
way  he  has  arranged  for  his  own  escape,  if  need  be.  So " 

"But  why  did  you  wish  to  come  at  all?" 

"Ma  foi,  as  if  /  knew!    A  matter  of  conscience,  I  suppose." 

"Matters  of  conscience  are  usually  riddles." 

"Like  this  one?  Bien,  I  am  still  trying  to  get  Your  High- 
ness to  leave  the  country.  But  this  time,  sire,  it  is  to  save  you." 

"To  save  me?" 

"Of  course,  on  account  of  France." 

"Oh,  on  account  of  France?" 

"  Why  else  ?    If— if  anything  happens  to  Maximilian,  France 


42o  The  Missourian 

will  be  blamed.  Ob  why,  why  did  you  not  escape  this  morning, 
while  the  road  was  open?" 

For  the  first  time  during  the  interview  the  fire  of  high  resolve 
leaped  into  the  prince's  eyes.  "But  could  I,  in  honor?"  he 
demanded  sternly.  "Think  of  the  townspeople,  abandoned 
to  the  Liberal  fury.  Their  Emperor,  mademoiselle,  means  to 
face  the  end  with  them,  here,  in  Queretaro." 

The  dignity  of  his  catastrophe  was  already  beginning  to 
appeal  to  him,  to  exalt  him,  even  as  the  vision  of  a  Hapsburg 
winning  his  empire  had  so  often  done  before. 

"But,"  protested  the  girl,  "if  they  capture  Your  Highness,  if 
they — if  they  hold  you  for  trial  ?  " 

She  stopped,  for  Maximilian  was  laughing,  and  laughing 
heartily.  The  idea  of  hands  laid  on  him,  an  Archduke  of  Aus- 
tria— ha,  he  was  grateful  to  her.  Its  very  absurdity  had  given 
him  the  first  relaxation  of  a  laugh  in  months. 

"Nevertheless,"  persisted  Jacqueline,  whose  heritage  of  a 
revolution  was  an  obstinate  bundle  of  these  same  absurdities, 
"nevertheless,  I  had  hoped  to  save  Your  Highness  with  my 
news,  since  it  is  news  that  leaves  no  hope.  Why  not,  then, 
escape  ?  Treat  for  terms,  do  anything,  only  save  your  followers 
and — yourself,  sire?" 

But  she  found  it  impossible  to  sway  him  from  this,  his  latest 
conceit.  His  new  role,  the  more  desperate  it  looked,  only 
ensnared  him  as  the  more  worthy.  He  contemplated  the  end 
serenely.  As  a  military  captain  he  was  culling  laurels  against 
theatric  odds.  His  heroic  loyalty  to  a  lost  cause,  with  perhaps 
a  little  martyrdom  (of  personal  inconvenience),  how  these  would 
count  and  be  not  denied  when  he  should  return  to  his  destiny  in 
Europe ! 

His  was  even  a  mood  to  consort  with  lofty  traits  in  others, 
and  in  a  kind  of  poetic  ecstasy  he  thought  of  Jacqueline's  stead- 
fast devotion  to  her  country's  glory.  And  he  was  moved  again 
by  the  vague,  chivalrous  longing  to  bend  the  knee,  to  do  her 


Of  All  News  the  Most  Spiteful  421 

some  knightly  service.  But — yes,  he  seemed  to  remember, 
there  was  such  a  service  to  be  done,  yet  and  yet — no,  he  had 
forgotten. 

Then  quite  curiously,  yet  still  without  remembering,  he 
dwelt  in  reverie  on  that  man  named  Driscoll  who  had  so  filled 
the  morning  with  valiant  deeds. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
VENDETTA'S  HALF  SISTER,  BETTER  BORN 

"  When  private  men  shall  act  with  original  views,  the  lustre  wfll 
be  transferred  from  the  actions  of  kings  to  those  of  gentlemen." 

— Emenon. 

JUST  outside  Driscoll's  tent,  under  the  stars,  a  fragrant  steak 
was  broiling.  The  colonel's  mozo  had  learned  the  magic  of 
the  forked  stick,  and  he  manipulated  his  wand  with  a  conscious 
pride,  so  that  the  low  sizzling  of  flesh  and  flame  was  as  the 
mystic  voice  in  some  witch's  brew.  There  were  many  other 
tents  on  the  plain,  a  blurred  city  of  whitish  shadows  against  the 
night,  and  there  were  many  other  glowing  coals  to  mark  where 
the  earth  lay  under  the  stars,  and  the  witching  murmur,  the 
tantalizing  charm  of  each  was — supper.  In  this  wise,  and 
thinking  themselves  very  patient,  men  were  waiting  for  other 
men  to  starve  to  death.  The  besieged  had  tried,  but  they  had 
not  again  cut  through  to  food. 

In  Driscoll's  tent  there  was  a  galaxy  of  woolen-shirted  war- 
riors, a  constellation  of  quiescent  Berserkers.  For  they  were 
Missouri  colonels,  except  one,  who  being  a  Kansan,  required 
no  title.  They  were  tobacco-chewing  giants,  famous  for 
expectoration.  Except  Meagre  Shanks,  who  tilted  his  in- 
evitable black  cigar  now  toward  one  eye,  now  toward  the 
other.  Except  the  Storm  Centre,  who  fondly  closed  his 
palm  over  his  cob  meerschaum  and  felt  its  warmth  and 
seemed  far  away,  a  dangerous  poet.  Except  Old  Brothers 
and  Sisters,  most  austere  of  Wesleyans,  who  had  neither 
pipe  nor  quid.  He  was  cleaning  his  pistols.  They  were 
men  hewn  for  mighty  deeds,  but — cringe  must  we  all 

422 


Vendetta's  Half  Sister,  Better  Born          423 

before  the  irony  that  neither  life  nor  romance  may  dodge — 
it  was  not  a  mighty  deed  which  that  night  was  to  exact  of 
them,  which  yet  they  were  brave  enough  to  do,  though  sorry 
the  figures  they  thought  they  made. 

Politics  was  then-  theme,  since  men,  though  busy  with  war 
and  death,  must  yet  relieve  their  statesmen,  especially  after 
supper,  and  neatly  arrange  the  Tariff,  Resumption,  or  what- 
ever else.  Like  oracles  the  ex-Confederates  held  forth  that  the 
Yankees  had  only  driven  out  the  French  to  march  in  them- 
selves, and  so  tutor  the  Mexicans  in  self-government.  To 
which  the  Kansan  ventured  a  minority  opinion,  though  being 
thus  a  judge  of  the  bench,  as  it  were,  he  had  no  need  of  the 
oaths  he  took. 

"Why  God  help  me  and  to  thunder  with  you,  the  United 
States  ain't  aiming  at  any  protectorate.  You  unreconstructed 
Rebs  simply  cain't  and  won't  see  good  faith  in  the  Federal  gov- 
ernment ! " 

"Carpet  bags?"  Driscoll  murmured  sweetly.  It  was  the 
majority  opinion. 

"Yes  sir'ee,"  and  Daniel  took  the  cue  as  a  bit  in  the  mouth, 
"there's  blood  on  the  face  of  the  moon  up  there,  acerrima  proxi- 
morum  odia,  by  God  sir!  Look  at  the  troops  at  our  elections! 

Look  at  the  Drake  Test  Oath!  Look  at "  Mr.  Boone 

was  fast  getting  vitriolic,  in  heavy  editorial  fashion,  when  a 
famished  face,  a  wolfish  face,  appeared  between  the  flaps  of  the 
tent.  "Look  at— that!" 

Politics  vanished,  war  and  death  resumed  their  own. 

The  whole  mess  stared. 

"Sth-hunderation,  it's  an  Imperialist!"  lisped  Crittenden 
of  Nodaway.  He  pointed  at  the  newcomer's  uniform,  which 
was  of  the  Batallon  del  Emperador. 

"Well,  bring  him  on  in,"  said  Driscoll  to  the  pickets  gripping 
the  man  by  either  arm. 

"He  was  trying  to  pass  through  our  lines,"  one  explained. 


424  The  Missourian 

"And  when  we  stopped  him,  he  begged  hard  to  be  brought  to 
the  Coronel  Gringo,  that  is,  to  you,  senor." 

The  mess  turned  curiously  on  Driscoll.  Why  a  half  dead 
soldier  of  the  Batallon  del  Emperador  should  have  a  preference 
as  to  his  jailer  was  beyond  them.  But  they  were  yet  more 
puzzled  to  hear  Driscoll  address  the  prisoner  by  name. 

"See  here,  Murgie,"  he  said,  "is  this  the  occasion  Rodrigo 
meant  when  he  talked  about  my  meeting  you  soon?  Is  it? 
Come,  crawl  out  of  the  grass.  Show  us  what  you're  up  to.  No, 
wait,  feed  first.  There's  plenty  left." 

But  the  old  man  had  not  once  glanced  toward  the  table. 
Whatever  the  pangs  of  hunger,  another  torment  was  upper- 
most. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  this,"  Boone  demanded,  as  though 
personally  offended,  "you've  got  the  hospital  color,  dull  lead  on 
yellow?  Here,  take  a  drink.  Yes,  I  know,  it's  mescal,  out- 
and-out  embalmed  deviltry  that  no  self-respecting  drunkard 
would  touch,  but  Lord  A'mighty,  man,  you  need  something!" 

Murguia  shook  his  head  irritably.  Offers  of  what  his  body 
craved  were  annoying  hindrances  before  the  craving  of  his  soul. 
He  twitched  himself  free  of  the  sentinels,  and  limped  painfully 
to  where  Driscoll  sat.  He  wore  no  coat,  but  his  green  panta- 
loons with  their  crimson  stripes  were  rolled  to  the  knee,  and 
the  white  calzoncillos  beneath  flapped  against  his  skeleton 
ankles.  His  feet  were  bare,  the  better  for  an  errand  of  stealth 
in  the  night.  He  was  a  pitiful  spectacle,  yet  a  repulsive,  and 
the  Americans  despised  themselves  for  the  strange  impulse 
they  had  to  kick  him  out  like  a  dog.  They  watched  him  won- 
deringly  as  he  tried  to  speak.  He  panted  from  his  late  rough 
handling  by  the  sentry,  and  his  half-closed  wound  gave  excru- 
ciating pain.  The  muscles  of  his  face  jerked  horribly,  but  his 
will  was  tremendous,  merciless,  and  at  last  the  cords  of  the  jaw 
knotted  and  hardened. 

"To-morrow  morn — morning,"  he  began,   "the  Emperor 


Vendetta's  Half  Sister,  Better  Born          425 

will  fight.     It  is  arranged  for — for  daybreak,  senores.    To 
to  fight— to  break  through— to— to  ESCAPE!" 

"W'y  then,"  exclaimed  Harry  Collins,  the  Kansan,  "good 
for  him!" 

The  parson  snatched  off  his  brass-bowed  spectacles,  and  his 
brow  lowered  fiercely  over  his  cherubic  eyes. 

"And  so  you  had  to  come  and  tell  us?"  he  demanded. 

But  the  traitorous  old  man  had  not  the  smallest  thought  of 
his  shame,  nor  could  have. 

"You — you  will  let  him  escape?"  he  challenged  them  in 
frantic  anger. 

The  mess  stole  abashed  glances  at  one  another.  They  would, 
they  knew  well  enough,  have  to  act  on  this  information.  But 
they  were  men  for  a  fair  fight,  and  they  had  no  stomach  to  rob 
the  besieged  of  a  last  desperate  chance.  For  a  moment  they 
were  enraged  against  the  informer. 

"We'll  just  keep  him  here,"  said  one. 

"Yes,  till  morning.  Then  he'll  tell  no  one  else,  and  we 
won't.  Poor  old  Maxie!" 

"Sure,"  ejaculated  Collins,  "give  Golden  Whiskers  a  show!" 

The  wolfish  light  in  the  sunken  eyes  quickened  to  a  flash. 
Lust  for  Maximilian's  capture  turned  to  chagrin. 

"Senores,  senores  mios,"  he  whined,  "you  do  not  know  yet, 
you  do  not  know,  that  if  Maximilian  is  not  taken " 

"Ah,  here  now,"  growled  Clay  of  Carroll,  "you  needn't 
worry  so  much.  He'll  be  driven  back  into  the  town  all  right, 
I  reckon." 

"And  what  then,  senor?  No,  you  do  not  know.  Your 
general,  senores — General  Escobedo — has  orders  to — to  raise 
the  siege." 

"What?" 

" Si  senor,  to  raise  the  siege!  The  orders  are  from  San  Luis, 
from  the  Senor  Presidente  there.  He— he  thinks  the  siege  has 
lasted  long  enough." 


426  The  Missourian 

"Great  Scot!" 

"  Precisamente.  Yes,  it  would  look  like — defeat.  It  would, 
if — you  don't  capture  Maximilian  by  daybreak." 

Meagre  Shanks  brought  his  boot  soles  wrathfully  to  the 
ground,  kicking  the  stool  back  of  him.  His  whole  mien  exuded 
a  newspaper  man's  contempt  for  faking.  "Now  then,  young 
fellow,"  and  he  shook  a  long  finger  at  the  ancient  Mexican, 
"here  you  know  all  that  Maximilian  knows.  And  here  again 
you  know  all  that  the  Presidente  knows.  All  right,  s'pose  you 
just  tell  us  now  more  or  less  about  how  mighty  little  you  do 
know?" 

"It's — it's  like  a  message  from  El  Chaparrito,"  the  parson 
demurred. 

"From  Shorty?"  Daniel  almost  roared.  "Oh  come, 
Clem,  don't  you  go  to  mixing  up  the  unseen  and  all-seeing 
guardian  of  the  Republica  with  this  dried-up,  wild-eyed  speci- 
men of  a  dried-up — of,  of  an  old  rascal.  No  one  ever  hears 
from  El  Chaparrito  'less  there's  a  crisis  on,  and  is  there  one  on 
now?  You  know  there  ain't.  If  there  was,  someone  would 
be  hearing  from  Shorty — Driscoll  there,  prob'bly.  But  there 
ain't.  Shucks,  this  old  codger  is  only  plum'  daft.  Aren't  you 
now" — he  appealed  querulously  to  Murguia,  "aren't  you  just 
crazy — say?" 

But  even  as  the  Americans  breathed  easier,  they  stared 
aghast  at  the  old  man. 

"Crazy?"  he  repeated.  "Crazy?"  he  fairly  shrieked, 
clutching  Boone  by  the  sleeve.  "No,  I  am  not!  Sen-or,  say 
that  I  am  not !  No,  no,  no,  I  am  not  crazy,  not  yet — not — not 
before  it  is  done,  not — before " 

"God!"  Boone  half  whispered.     "Look  at  his  eyes  now!" 

The  old  man  checked  himself  in  trembling.  No  help  for 
him  lay  in  human  testimony.  But  there  was  his  own  will,  which 
had  driven  his  frail  body.  Now  as  a  demon  it  gripped  his 
mind  and  held  it  from  the  brink. 


Vendetta's  Half  Sister,  Better  Born          427 

"Go,  out  of  here,  all  of  you!"  he  burst  on  them.  "Go,  I 
have  more  to  tell — more,  more,  more,  do  you  understand  ? — but 
I'll  tell  it  to  no  one,  to  no  one,  unless  to  Mister  Dreescol." 

A  raving  maniac  or  not,  canards  or  not,  there  might  be  in 
all  this  what  was  vital.  The  Americans  stirred  uneasily,  in  a 
kind  of  awe,  and  at  a  nod  from  Driscoll  they  left  the  tent. 

Murguia  grew  quieter  at  once.  His  faculties  tightened  on 
the  effort  before  him.  He  was  alone  with  the  man  who  would 
understand,  so  he  thought;  who  had  the  same  reason  to  under- 
stand, so  he  thought. 

Driscoll  had  shared  nothing  of  the  late  emotions.  He  had 
smoked  impassively.  His  interest  was  of  the  coldest.  Only 
his  eyes,  narrowed  fixedly  on  the  Mexican,  betrayed  the  heed 
he  gave.  When  the  others  were  gone,  he  uncrossed  his  legs, 
and  crossed  them  the  other  way,  and  thrust  the  corncob  into 
his  pocket. 

"Sit  down!" 

Murguia  dropped  to  the  nearest  camp  stool. 

"Now  then,  you  with  your  dirty  little  affairs,  why  do  you 
come  to  me?" 

Murguia  leaned  forward  over  the  table  between  them,  his 
bony  arms  among  candles  and  a  litter  of  earthen  plates.  The 
odor  of  meat  assailed  his  nostrils.  But  the  hunger  in  his  leer 
had  no  scent  for  food. 

"This  is  the  time  I  meant,  senor,  when  Rodrigo  told  you 
that  you  would  see  me." 

"About  the  ivory  cross?    But  I  gave  you  that  a  month  ago." 

"A  month  ago — a  month,  wasted!  How  much  sooner  I 
would  have  come,  only  another  had  to  be — persuaded — first." 

"Oh,  had  he?  Then  it's  not  about  the  cross?  And  this 
other?  Suppose  I  guess?  He  was — he  was  the  red-haired 
puppy,  my  old  friend  the  Dragoon,  who  carried  you  off  wounded 
that  day?  Humph,  the  very  first  guess,  too!" 

Murguia  darted  at  him  a  look  of  uneasy  admiration. 


1428  The  Missourian 

"I  would  have  told  Your  Mercy,  anyway,"  he  said,  half 
cringing.  "Yes,  he  is  Colonel  Lopez." 

"And  you  '  persuaded '  him  ?  " 

"Events  did.  Since  the  siege  began  I've  tried,  I've  worked, 
to  convince  him  that  these  same  events  would  happen.  Ugh, 
the  dull  fool,  he  had  to  wait  for  them." 

"I  can  almost  guess  again,"  said  Driscoll,  as  though 
it  were  some  curious  game,  "but  if  you'd  just  as  soon 
explain " 

"Listen!  You  remember  two  years  ago  at  my  hacienda, 
when  Lopez  sentenced  you  to  death?  But  why  did  he  sen- 
tence you  to  death,  why,  senor?" 

"That's  an  easy  one.  It  was  because  he  didn't  want  my 
offer  of  Confederate  aid  to  reach  Maximilian." 

"But  why  not?  I  will  tell  you.  It  was  because  he  was 
trying  even  then  to  buy  the  Republic's  good  will,  in  case — in 
case  anything  should  happen.  But  he  was  afraid  to  change, 
the  coward!  He  must  first  know  which  side  would  win.  I 
am  his  orderly — he  knows  why  I  am — and  I've  tried  to 
drive  it  into  his  thick  wits  that  the  Empire  is  damned  and  has 
been,  but  he  still  doubted,  even  when  we  were  starving  again, 
even  when  every  crumb  was  gathered  into  the  common  store, 
even  when  it  was  useless  to  shoot  men  for  not  declaring  hidden 
corn,  even  when  forced  loans  were  vain,  since  money  could  no 
longer  buy.  No  senor,  even  with  proofs  like  these,  Miguel 
Lopez  was  stubborn." 

"I'd  prob'bly  guess  he  was  a  loyal  scoundrel,  after  all." 

"More  yet,  he  has  fought  bravely,  making  himself  a  marked 
man  in  the  Republic's  eyes." 

"Then  why " 

"Because  so  long  as  the  Empire  had  a  chance,  or  he  thought 
it  had,  he  hoped  for  more  coddling.  You  see,  senor,  he  thought 
Marquez  was  coming  back  with  relief.  There  was  that — that 
Frenchwoman  you  know  of — who  brought  news  from  the 


Vendetta's  Half  Sister,  Better  Born          429 

capital.  But  Maximilian  dared  not  make  the  news  public. 
He  forged  a  letter  instead,  a  letter  from  Marquez,  and  he  had 
its  contents  proclaimed.  Marquez  had  been  delayed,  so  all 
Queretaro  read,  but  he  had  at  last  destroyed  the  Liberals  in 
his  path,  and  was  then  hurrying  here  with  his  victorious  army. 
This  false  hope  blinded  Lopez  with  the  others  in  there.  But 
when  Marquez  did  not  come,  when  utter  demoralization  set 
in,  when  we  were  a  starving  town  against  thirty-five  thousand 
outside,  when  there  were  scores  of  deserters  every  day,  when 
any  man  who  talked  of  surrender  was  executed,  and  still  no 
Marquez,  then  Lopez  began " 

"I  see,  he  began  to  be  persuaded?" 

"Still,  he  wanted  to  be  a  general.  But  the  other  generals 
forced  Maximilian  not  to  promote  him." 

"So  he  was  disappointed?" 

"And  persuaded,  senor.  The  sally  was  already  planned  for 
this  morning,  but  Lopez  argued  obstacles,  and  so  got  it  post- 
poned until  to-morrow  morning.  He  wanted  to — to  act  on  his 
— persuasion.  And  that  is  why,"  Murguia  got  to  his  feet  and 
limped  around  the  table  to  Driscoll,  "and  that  is  why,"  he 
ended  in  a  croaking  whisper,  "why  I  am  here!" 

"And  the  red  puppy,  how  near  here  did  he  come  with 
you?" 

Again  Murguia  darted  at  his  questioner  that  uneasy  glance 
of  admiration. 

"Lopez  is  waiting  between  the  lines,"  he  replied.  "As  to 
our  own  lines,  we  passed  them  easily,  since  Lopez  commands 
the  reserve  brigade  and  places  the  sentinels  himself  around 
La  Cruz  monastery." 

"Oh,  does  he?"  Driscoll  whistled  softly.  "But  what's 
your  plan?"  He  put  the  question  sympathetically,  which 
disturbed  Don  Anastasio  vastly  more  than  the  American's 
peremptory  tone  in  the  beginning.  "What's  your  plan?" 
he  asked  again,  gently  coaxing. 


430  The  Missourian 

Murguia  hesitated.  This  polite  drawing-room  interest  was 
the  most  ironical  of  encouragement  for  villainy.  Driscoll 
frowned  impatiently,  but  at  once  he  was  smiling  again.  He 
placidly  filled  his  corncob,  and  a  moment  later,  his  gaze  piercing 
the  tobacco  smoke,  he  said,  "Then  I'll  tell  you.  You're  here 
to  make  a  dicker,  you  and  your  tool  between  the  lines.  The 
monastery  of  La  Cruz  on  top  of  the  bluff  is  the  citadel  of  Quere- 
taro.  Maximilian  has  his  quarters  there.  The  troops  there 
are  the  reserve  brigade.  This  puppy,  this  mongrel,  com- 
mands the  reserve  brigade.  He  places  the  sentinels.  And 
you  are  his  orderly. — Oh,  I  haven't  forgotten  how  he  let 
you  off  that  time  he  condemned  me! — So  now  you  are  his 
orderly,  for  your  own  reasons  and  his.  And  here  you  are, 
talking  mysteriously  about^capturing  Maximilian.  But  you 
don't  mean  that,  snake.  You  are  here  to  sell  him!  How- 
soever," and  smiling  a  little  at  the  stilted  phrasing,  Driscoll 
paused  and  delicately  rammed  the  tobacco  tighter  in  the 
bowl,  "howsoever,  Murgie,  you've  come  to  the  wrong  market. 
No,  there's  no  demand  for  Maximilians  just  now,  not  in  this 
booth.  But  why  in  blazes  didn't  you  go  to  Escobedo?  With 
his  Shylock  beard,  I  reckon  he'd  take  a  flyer  in  human  flesh." 

"I  was  going  to  him,  but  I  came  to  you  first,  to  take  us  there, 
to  take  Lopez  and  myself,  I — I  thought  you  would  manage 
it  all,  because  you — Your  Mercy  is  the  strongest,  the  most 
resourceful " 

"Resourceful  enough,  eh,  to  dodge  the  bullets  you  had  fixed 
up  for  me  once  ?  Thanks,  Murgie,  but  I  liked  your  attentions 
then  better  than  your  slimy  advances  now.  By  the  way,  how 
are  you  going  to  get  to  Escobedo?" 

The  tone  was  honey  itself. 

Murguia  gasped,  yet  not  so  much  to  find  himself  a  prisoner, 
as  to  find  himself  mistaken  in  the  American. 

"Now  maybe,"  Driscoll  suggested,  "maybe  you'll  be  won- 
dering yourself  why  you  bring  your  dirty  little  affairs  to  me? 


Vendetta's  Half  Sister,  Better  Born          431 

Lopez  may  be  an  open  book,  but  you  seem  to've  read  me  wrong. 
Prob'bly  the  language  is  foreign." 

Murguia's  jaw  dropped,  and  he  gaped  as  one  who  beholds 
the  collapse  of  high  towering  walls.  It  was  his  system  of  life, 
of  motives  calculated,  of  humanity  weighed.  It  was  the  whole 
fabric  of  hate  and  passions  which  quivered  and  crashed  and 
flattened  in  a  chaos  of  dust  before  his  wildly  staring  eyes. 

"You  mean,  senor,  you  mean  you  do  not  want — as  well,  as 
// — to  bring  to  his  end  this  libertine,  this  thief  of  girlhood,  this 
prince  who  scatters  death,  who  scatters  shame,  this — this " 

"Man  alive,  you're  screaming!     Stop  it!" 

With  his  nails  the  old  man  combed  the  froth  from  his  lips. 

"But  you  too  have  cause,"  he  cried,  "cause  not  so  heavy,  but 
cause  enough,  as  well  as  I!  There  was  my  daughter,  my  little 
girl!  With  you  there  is  that  French  wo " 

He  stopped,  for  he  thought  he  heard  the  sharp  click  of  teeth. 
But  Driscoll  was  only  grave. 

"Well,  go  on,"  he  said.  "But — speak  for  your  daughter 
only." 

"I  can't  go  on.  I  won't  go  on,"  Murguia  burst  out  desper- 
ately, and  flung  up  his  arms.  "If  you  don't  understand  already, 
then  I  can't  make  you.  It's  useless.  A  book?  You're  a 
stone!  But  any  other,  who  had  a  heart  for  suffering,  in  your 
place  would 

"  Oh  shut  up,  Murgie ! "  cried  Driscoll  wearily,  but  in  some- 
thing akin  to  supplication. 

With  the  serpent's  wisdom,  the  tempter  struck  no  more  on 
that  side.  His  fangs  were  not  for  the  blighted  lover.  What, 
though,  of  the  soldier? 

"No  one  doubts,  senor,"  he  whined  unctuously,  "that  Your 
Mercy  is  loyal  to  the  Republic.  So  it  cannot  be*  that  Y'r 
Mercy  knows " 

"See  here,  Murgie,  I'm  getting  sleepy.  But  I'll  find  you  a 
comfortable  tent,  with  plenty  to  eat,  and  a  polite  guard " 


432  The  Missourian 

"Senor,"  stormed  the  old  man,  "I  tell  you  you  don't  know 
what  this  means  to  the  Republic.  Maximilian  will  escape,  no 
matter  the  cost.  At  daybreak  there  is  to  be  a  concentrated 
attack  on  some  point  in  your  lines;  but  where,  nobody  knows 
except  Miramon.  Then  Maximilian  will  cut  through  with  the 
cavalry.  The  infantry  will  follow,  if  it  can.  And  after  them, 
the  artillery.  You  Republicans  may  not  even  know  it  until 
too  late,  because  meantime  you  will  be  fighting  the  towns- 
people, thinking  you  are  fighting  the  whole  army." 

Driscoll   roused   himself   suddenly.     "The   townspeople?" 

"Si  senor,  they  are  to  be  a  decoy.  Some  volunteered,  the 
rest  were  drafted.  They  have  been  armed,  but  they  are  only 
to  be  killed,  they  are  only  to  draw  the  Republican  strength, 
while  the  Emperor  and  the  army  escape." 

Driscoll  sprang  from  his  seat,  in  an  agitation  that  was 
Murguia's  first  hope. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  demanded,  "that  this  Maxi- 
milian who  makes  speeches  about  not  deserting  intends  now 
to  sacrifice  these  poor  helpless  devils?  Prove  it!" 

Murguia  had  touched  neither  lover  nor  soldier.  But  what 
man  was  here,  in  boots  and  woolen  shirt,  puffing  angrily  at  a 
corncob,  yet  sitting  in  judgment  supreme  on  the  proud  Haps- 
burg  himself?  Blindly  stumbling,  Murguia  had  touched  the 
inexplicable  man  who  was  of  stone,  and  the  baffled  fiend 
that  was  in  him  leaped  up  with  a  cry  of  glee. 

"To  prove  it?"  he  cried,"  Ai,  then  Lopez  shall  walk  with  you 
in  our  outer  trenches.  For  in  them  you  shall  see  the  doomed 
townsmen  themselves,  a  thousand  townsmen,  sleeping  there 
until  the  dawn.  Afterward,  when  Maximilian  is  safe,  they 
who  are  still  alive  will  be  free  to  surrender." 

"And  then "  But  Driscoll  knew  the  temper  of  the  siege. 

What  with  the  chief  prize  lost,  there  would  be  scant  mercy  for 
surrendered  townsmen. 

"God  in  heaven,"  he  muttered  fervently,  "if  there's  any  to 


Vendetta's  Half  Sister,  Better  Born          433 

suffer,  it  might  as  well  be  the  guilty  one,  and  a  thousand  times 
better  one  than  one  thousand!  A  man's  a  man;  or  alleged 
to  be! — Murgie,  you  wait  here,  I'm  going  to  call  the  others." 

The  others  came,  and  heard.  It  was  the  court  en  bane,  five 
Missourians  and  a  Kansan.  And  the  culprit  was  a  Caesar. 
But  they  hewed  forth  their  Justice  as  rugged  and  huge,  and  as 
true,  as  would  the  outlaw,  Michel  Angelo.  Like  him,  they 
were  their  own  law.  Nor  were  they  nice  gentlemen,  these 
Homeric  men  who  spat  tobacco.  Finding  their  goddess  pan- 
dered to  by  those  who  were  nice  gentlemen,  and  finding  the 
gift  of  these  a  pretty  scarf  over  her  eye,  they  roughly  tore  it 
away.  For  them  she  was  not  that  kind  of  a  woman. 

"W'y,  this  prince  is  no  Christian,"  Crittenden  announced  in 
querulous  discovery. 

"One  thousand  loyally  dying  for  their  sovereign,"  Daniel 
mused,  his  romantic  soul  wavering.  "Sho!"  he  cried  the 
instant  after,  "that  thing's  out-dated!" 

"And  the  prince  there "  began  the  Kansan  angrily. 

"May  just  go — to — the — devil!" 

All  swung  round  on  one  of  then-  number.  It  was  the  parson 
himself  who  had  pronounced  sentence. 

Then  they  set  out  under  the  stars  to  attend  to  it. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
UNDER  A  SPANISH  CLOAK 

"  What  misadventure  is  so  early  up, 
That  calls  our  person  from  our  morning's  rest  ?" 

— Romeo  and  Juliet. 

JUST  within  their  own  bivouac  four  Missourians  waited  with 
eight  horses.  Driscoll  and  Boone,  and  the  small  limping 
shadow  of  Murguia  between  them,  went  on  outside  the  sentry 
line  toward  the  Alameda.  When  they  returned,  a  stranger 
accompanied  them,  a  little  distance  apart. 

"It's  true,"  Driscoll  whispered  to  those  who  had  staid. 
"The  trenches  are  filled  with  townsmen.  He  took  me." 

The  Americans  glanced  once  the  stranger's  way,  and 
grunted.  He  was  a  large  man,  hidden  to  the  eyes  in  a  Spanish 
cloak.  For  all  the  charity  of  darkness,  he  seemed  ill  at  ease, 
and  held  himself  from  them,  a  marked  figure,  alone.  A 
leprosy  in  himself  tainted  his  every  thought.  He  would  not 
willingly  come  near  any  man.  He  understood  English,  un- 
happily now  for  him,  and  Boone's  warning  as  they  mounted 
seared  like  vitriol.  "Look  out,  Harry,  don't  touch  the  filthy 
skut!  It'll  take  the  rotting  of  death  to  clean  your  ringers." 
After  that,  even  Murguia  drew  involuntarily  away  from  the 
stranger. 

They  circled  the  town  widely,  having  only  Republican  chal- 
lenges to  quiet,  and  they  dismounted  under  the  trees  which 
shade  the  valley  to  the  northeast,  between  the  Sangremal,  or 
mound  of  La  Cruz,  and  the  besiegers'  range  of  hills.  Here, 
under  La  Cruz's  steep  bluff,  the  Republican  general-in-chief 

434 


Under  a  Spanish  Cloak  435 

had  his  quarters,  and  here  he  kept  a  hawk's  jealous  watch 
on  the  walls  above,  where  slept  his  country's  invader. 

Open  battle  is  clear  honor,  so  reckoned;  but  it  takes  a 
brave  man  to  dive  for  a  pearl  in  slime.  Driscoll  was  the  one  to 
conduct  Murguia  and  his  gloomy  companion  into  the  presence 
of  General  Escobedo.  When  he  rejoined  the  other  five  outside 
the  tent,  he  was  alone. 

"Well,  come  on,"  he  said  as  he  mounted  under  the  trees. 
"We  needn't  stay  for  the  rest  of  it,  thank  God." 

For  a  while  they  rode  in  silence  back  toward  their  camp. 
They  passed  under  the  aqueduct  and  entered  the  open  plain. 
Then  the  parson  stretched  out  his  hand  to  the  pommel  of  Dris- 
coll's  saddle. 

"Well?"  he  ventured  softly. 

"Well,  Clem,  it's  done." 

The  others  crowded  their  horses  nearer. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  all,"  Driscoll  abruptly  began  again.  "I 
want  to  tell  you  that  I've  just  seen  the  strangest  thing  of  my 
whole  life,  right  back  there  in  that  tent.  I — well,  it's  simply 
flattened  me  out!" 

"You  mean  Lopez,  Din?"  one  asked  tentatively. 

"Lopez?  No,  no,  there's  nothing  strange  in  him.  Any 
low  hound  will  sell  out  to  save  his  hide.  No,  Dan,  I  mean 
the  other.  I  mean  the  old  man.  He's  the  one  who  used  to 
run  the  blockade  off  Mobile,  and  a  whiter-livered,  more  con- 
temptible old  grandmother  I  never  hope  to  see  anywhere,  no, 
never!  Yet  not  a  month  ago,  the  day  of  that  Cimatario  scrim- 
mage, I  found  him  on  the  battlefield,  and  he  had  been  wounded. 
But  he  didn't  seem  to  know  it.  He  didn't  even  seem  to  know 
that  the  shells  were  still  banging  all  around  him." 

"An  old  coward,  too!"  someone  muttered. 

"But  wait.  He  used  to  be  one  thing  worse,  one  thing  more, 
than  a  coward.  He  was  a  miser,  and  such  a  miser  that  he  made 
himself  face  danger.  You  should  have  seen  him  running  a 


436  The  Missourian 

blockade,  with  the  Yankees  chasing  behind.  He  trembled — 
I  tell  you,  he  trembled  like  a  withered  cottonwood  leaf  on  a 
broken  stem.  Yet  he  whined  against  stoking  with  turpentine, 
because  it  cost  a  little  more.  I'd  'a'  thought,  I  did  then,  that 
the  miser  was  in  his  bones  until  the  last  trumpet.  But  to-night, 
back  in  that  tent  just  now " 

"Well?" 

"Well,  he  reused  money!  He  refused  gold!  He  didn't 
seem  to  know  what  it  was,  any  more  than  he  did  bullets  a 
month  ago.  Escobedo  asked  him  his  price,  and  shoved  a 
glittering  heap  across  the  table  at  him.  You  saw  how  he  acted 
when  we  offered  him  something  to  eat?  Well,  he  looked  the 
same  way  at  the  gold.  He  acted  impatient.  He  didn't  want 
to  see  anything  except  Lopez.  But  you'd  have  called  it  a 
miser's  eagerness,  the  way  he  watched  that  Lopez.  Only  a 
miser  don't  exult  when  it's  someone  else  who  pockets  the 
money." 

"Maybe  they'll  divide?" 

"Not  much,  because  Murgie  could  have  had  his  share  over 
and  above.  No,  it  wasn't  that.  It  wasn't  the  gold.  He  was 
greedy — for  a  soul!  He  wanted  to  see  Lopez  bought,  and  no 
hitch.  And  when  it  was  done,  he  wet  those  catfish  lips  of  his 
with  his  tongue.  I  believe  the  devil  in  hell  must  look  just  that 
way  when  he  gets  some  poor  sinner.  But  to  think  of  that  old 
skinflint,  to  think  of  that  old  feeble  cowardly  shark  not  knowing 
danger,  not  knowing  money " 

"Come,  Din,"  the  parson's  blessed,  cheery  voice  interrupted, 
"let's  hurry  back  and  wash  our  hands.  Then  we'll  all  feel 
better." 

While  the  six  Americans  rode  gloomily  away  from  what  they 
had  done,  and  from  their  own  thoughts  as  they  best  could,  a 
stealthy  company  was  forming  under  the  trees  among  the 
tents  of  the  Republican  general.  After  a  time  the  seeming 
spectres  began  to  move  in  unison,  an  undulating  wave  that 


Under  a  Spanish  Cloak  437 

spread  as  the  grayish  shadow  of  a  low  hanging  cloud.  The 
dim  figures  slowly  swept  the  little  space  of  valley,  on  toward  the 
steep  slope  of  La  Cruz,  and  soon  they  were  climbing,  silently 
creeping,  nearer  and  nearer  the  dark  walls  above. 

Two  seemed  the  leaders,  and  the  third  limped  close  behind. 
But  one  of  the  first  two  held  a  pistol  ever  near  the  heart  of  his 
companion,  who  was  wrapped  to  the  eyes  in  a  Spanish  cloak. 

"Who  goes "  cried  an  Imperialist  sentry. 

"Your  colonel,  fool!"  he  of  the  cloak  stopped  him  short. 
"I,  Miguel  Lopez.  I  am  changing  the  guard.  Return  now  to 
your  barracks  and  get  what  sleep  you  can  before  morning. 
One  of  these  men  with  me  will  take  your  place." 

In  like  manner  each  later  challenge  was  satisfied,  and  so 
on  to  a  cannon-battered  crevice  in  the  wall.  The  spectres 
passed  through  the  gap  there  into  a  field  of  graves  on 
the  mound's  level  summit.  The  earth  had  an  uncanny 
softness  under  their  tread.  The  plots  were  mostly  fresh, 
of  slain  Imperialists  still  keeping  their  rank  according  to 
battalion.  But  the  living,  the  Reserve  Brigade,  were  here  as 
well,  sleeping  over  the  dead.  They  stirred  and  grumbled 
at  being  disturbed,  but  thought  then  no  more  of  the  in- 
truders. The  secret  plans  for  the  daybreak  attack  explained 
everything.  Then:  colonel,  whose  voice  they  knew,  was 
shifting  forces  in  preparation.  But  when  the  dawn  came, 
they  awoke  to  find  their  weapons  gone,  and  themselves 
defenseless  prisoners. 

Many  of  the  spectral  troop  fell  away  to  hold  the  cemetery, 
but  the  rest  kept  on,  and  entered  the  monastery  garden.  Here 
there  was  a  battery  of  one  gun,  whose  muzzle  pointed  the  way 
to  the  Republican  camp.  Without  a  sound  the  Imperialist 
gunners  were  replaced  by  Republicans.  The  cannon  was  one 
captured  during  the  Cimatario  fight.  It  was  called  "La 
Tempestad,"  and  bore  an  inscription,  "The  Last  Argument  of 
Nations."  Its  new  possessors  turned  the  muzzle  squarely  on 


438  The  Missourian 

the  monastery,  not  fifty  yards  away,  where  Maximilian  lay 
then  asleep. 

The  shadowy  host  did  not  linger  in  the  monastery  itself. 
They  swept  through  hastily,  in  at  the  garden  entrance,  along 
the  corridor,  and  out  by  the  great  portico  door  upon  La  Cruz 
Plaza.  They  had  passed  the  citadel.  The  town  lay  before 
them.  But  in  the  Plaza  were  more  cannon,  which  had  been 
taken  from  the  trenches  and  massed  for  the  supreme  effort. 
They  lay  silent,  under  the  silent  bells  of  the  church.  They  lay 
under  the  giant  Cross  of  the  Apparition,  which  was  adorned  by 
the  Inditos  with  garlands  in  vague  memory  of  pagan  rites  on  that 
very  spot.  They  lay  under  the  splendid  Arabian  palms.  They 
lay  among  defenders.  To  take  them  was  like  prowling  with  a 
torch  among  broken  casks  of  gunpowder.  Not  a  shot  must 
be  fired  until  the  thing  was  done.  Otherwise,  a  quick  second 
shot  was  to  find  the  heart  of  Lopez.  So  Lopez  was  exceedingly 
cautious.  However,  he  commanded  here.  He  was  the  Em- 
peror's favorite.  Squad  after  squad,  the  drowsy  Imperialists 
moved  off,  letting  the  strangers  relieve  them.  So  the  critical 
work  was  achieved,  even  as  day  appeared  over  the  eastern 
hills.  Then  he  who  had  kept  so  close  to  Lopez  put  his  revolver 
away. 

"Your  bargain  is  fulfilled,  senor,"  he  said.  "Accordingly, 
here's  the  paper  I  was  to  give  you.  It  is  your  safe  conduct 
throughout  the  Republic.  You  are  free.  Go!" 

Lopez  clutched  the  thing  that  meant  his  life,  but  as  his 
fingers  tightened  over  it,  his  first  greed  vanished.  He  stared 
about  him  uncertainly.  The  Plaza  swarmed  with  men. 
They  were  the  gray  battalion  he  had  led  there.  In  the  dawning 
light  they  were  still  gray.  They  were  the  Supremos  Poderes 
de  la  Republica.  De  la  Republica  ?  Yes,  of  the  enemy,  and  he 
had  brought  them.  But  it  was  as  though  he  had  just  awakened, 
and  found  them  there.  The  enemy?  The  enemy  was  in 
La  Cruz!  With  a  sharp  cry,  he  turned  and  ran  back  into  the 


Under  a  Spanish  Cloak  439 

monastery.  He  brushed  aside  the  hateful  gray  uniforms. 
He  ran  panting  up  the  stone  steps.  In  the  dark  hall  above  he 
stopped  at  a  cell  door,  and  pounded,  and  tugged  frantically  at 
its  latch. 

"Senor,  awake!  Hurry!  We  are  betrayed!  Hurry!  Es- 
cape— escape " 

Within  came  a  startled  sleepy  voice,  "What,  what's — " 
which  changed  at  once  to  reproving  dignity.  "Can  it  be? — 
Lopez!" 

"But  senor — sire — the  Chinacos,  the  Republicans,  they  are 
here  already!" 

"Colonel  Lopez!"  In  its  shocked  surprise  the  voice  was 
edged  with  rebuke.  "Man,  man,  where  are  your  years  of 
training  near  my  person  ?  One  would  think  you  some  boorish 
night-watchman." 

Lopez  outside  the  door  dropped  his  hands,  and  fell  abjectedly 
silent,  as  servilely  abashed  in  his  lapse  of  etiquette  as  though 
he  stood  the  traitor  unmasked. 

"Now  then,  Miguel,"  spoke  the  Emperor  more  kindly,  "go 
to  General  Mejia  and  the  others.  Let  them  have  the  goodness 
to  attend  me  here." 

Lopez  turned  on  down  the  corridor,  stopped  at  the  doors  of 
Generals  Mejia  and  Castillo,  and  the  Prince  Salm-Salm.  At 
each  he  tapped  lightly,  as  one  dazed,  and  announced  that  the 
enemy  surrounded  them.  Then,  remembering,  he  fled. 

Within  the  thick  walls  that  narrowed  his  state  into  a  friar's 
cell,  Maximilian  rose  from  his  iron  couch.  "So,"  he  sighed, 
almost  in  relief,  "Destiny  means  it  to  end  in  this  way."  He 
was  calm,  and  he  attired  himself  carefully.  He  chose  his 
general's  uniform,  with  its  rich  dark  blue,  and  scarlet  cordon. 
Nor  did  he  forget  the  star  of  some  royal  order,  which  to  common 
men  seemed  a  cotillion  favor.  When  he  should  step  forth  that 
morning,  it  was  to  play  a  world  role.  The  prince  must  be 
serene  in  the  moment  of  trial.  The  nations  must  know  that 


440  The  Missourian 

Destiny  had  him  in  hand.  And  musing  thus,  he  parted  his 
golden  beard  with  dainty  precision.  Within  a  month  Europe 
would  acclaim  him  reverently.  He  noted  that  his  high  boots 
glistened.  Mejla  and  the  other  two,  hurrying  to  him,  fell 
back  in  admiration  to  behold  how  placid  he  was. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "to  leave  here,  or  die!  There's 
nothing  else." 

He  noticed  a  soft  heap  at  the  door,  and  picked  it  up. 

"Lopez's  cloak,  a  disguise!"  he  exclaimed.  "God  bless  the 
poor  fellow,  he  left  it  for  me." 

He  wrapped  the  garment  about  him,  took  his  pistols,  and  led 
the  way.  In  the  dark  corridor  down  stairs  a  Republican  sentry 
mistook  the  cool,  commanding  figure  for  one  of  his  own  gen- 
erals, and  presented  arms.  Maximilian  gravely  saluted,  and 
with  his  three  companions  passed  out. 

The  Plaza  was  a  blurred  scene  of  confusion.  Men  were 
awakening  to  find  their  arms  gone,  and  themselves  covered  by 
muskets.  Shots  had  been  fired.  Curses  abounded.  Entire 
companies  were  being  marched  away  as  prisoners.  Republican 
officers  either  thought  that  Maximilian  was  Lopez,  from  his 
cloak  and  height,  or  were  too  distracted  to  notice.  It  is 
possible,  too,  that  the  victors  would  have  had  him  escape,  that 
they  might  not  have  the  trouble  of  his  disposal,  and  that  they 
preferred  that  he  should  not  thrust  it  on  them.  At  any  rate, 
he  and  the  three  behind  pushed  their  way  undisturbed  through 
cannon  and  brown  stolid  men  in  gray,  and  reached  the  spot 
where  the  Plaza  narrows  into  a  street  that  gently  slopes  down 
into  the  town.  But  here  a  guard  was  posted. 

"Pues,  hombre,  they're  civilians,  let  them  pass." 

Maximilian  turned  on  him  who  spoke,  and  beheld  the 
blackmailer,  scout,  deserter,  Don  Tiburcio.  He  wore  now  the 
uniform  of  a  Republican  explorador.  His  crossed  eye  gleamed 
so  humorously  up  at  the  Emperor,  it  might  have  been  insolence, 
but  it  was  only  the  proffered  sharing  of  a  jest.  His  matter-of- 


Under  a  Spanish  Cloak  441 

fact  tone  prevailed,  and  the  guard  stood  aside.  The  four 
passed  on  down  the  street.  In  comical  melancholy  Don 
Tiburcio  looked  after  them,  and  then  he  perceived  that  a  fifth 
had  slipped  by  the  guard  and  was  following  closely  behind. 

"The  saints  help  us — help  him,  it's  Murguia!"  Tiburcio 
muttered  in  horror.  He  recalled  the  night  when  Maria  de  la 
Luz  was  found  dead. 

The  old  man,  coatless,  barefoot,  in  his  pantaloons  of  Imperial 
green,  limped  desperately  to  keep  pace  with  the  great  strides 
of  the  four  ahead.  The  broad  crimson  stripe  down  each  pant 
leg  would  break,  straighten,  break  again,  in  bizarre  accord,  with 
every  painful  step.  It  was  a  lope,  and  he  more  like  a  starved 
wolf,  a  lean,  persistent  shadow,  ever  ready  for  the  chance  to 
spring. 

By  hastening  down  into  the  town,  Maximilian  thought  to 
rally  what  forces  were  there  for  a  last  stand;  or,  to  be  more 
exact,  for  a  last  tableau.  The  end  of  his  empire  must  have 
dclat.  He  found  the  town  panic-stricken,  since  all  could  see 
the  Republic's  standard  over  the  towers  of  La  Cruz.  Dum- 
founded  officers  had  gotten  to  housetops,  and  were  using  their 
glasses.  They  beheld  the  enemy  as  busy  as  scurrying  ants  on 
the  surrounding  hills.  Clouds  of  men  from  every  point  were 
sweeping  across  the  llano  toward  the  town.  The  advance  were 
already  in  the  narrow  streets.  Killing,  looting,  had  begun. 
Clanging  bells,  hoof  beats,  yells,  musketry,  and  in  the  distance 
deep- voiced  cannon!  The  Emperor  and  his  three  companions, 
with  the  malignant  shadow  hovering  ever  near,  quickened  their 
course  through  the  town.  They  paused  only  to  dispatch 
couriers.  Miramon,  when  found,  was  to  come  at  all  speed 
with  every  possible  man  to  the  Cerro  de  las  Campanas.  They 
gained  the  adobe  suburbs  on  the  western  edge,  leaving  behind 
the  fearsome  rising  tide  of  human  sound.  An  officer  forced  the 
Emperor  to  mount  his  horse.  Many  joined  their  flight.  They 
crossed  broken  fields,  and  reached  the  summit  of  the  wedge- 


442  The  Missourian 

shaped  rock  called  las  Campanas.  Close  behind,  emerging 
from  the  town,  were  the  first  pursuers,  who  quickly  grew  to  a 
thick  black  fringe  around  the  hill.  Shells  were  falling.  The 
heavens  seemed  to  flower  vengefully,  with  the  Campanas  knoll 
as  the  one  focus.  The  adobe  stockade  crowning  the  top  was 
soon  packed  with  fugitives,  until  those  within,  like  shipwrecked 
creatures  on  a  raft,  barred  out  those  still  coming.  The  whisper 
spread  that  in  the  town  Miramon  had  been  taken  shot  through 
the  cheek  after  shooting  many  others.  The  panic  grew. 
Men  knew  themselves  at  bay.  They  recognized  the  death- 
trap. On  the  outlying  heights  the  cannon  had  their  range. 
Grenades,  bombs,  grape,  and  canister,  fell  as  hail. 

The  Emperor  turned  to  General  Mejia. 

"Could  we  cut  our  way  out?"  he  asked. 

Mejia  put  down  his  glasses.  He  paused,  then  shook  his 
head. 

Straightway  an  orderly  with  a  white  flag  was  sent  down  the 
hill.  But  the  firing  did  not  cease  for  that.  Maximilian,  seeing 
that  he  could  make  no  terms  for  those  around  him,  seeing  them 
fall  by  scores  instead,  himself  followed  the  orderly;  and 
following  him,  was  the  ever  faithful  shadow. 

From  out  the  dark  fringe  a  man  on  a  white  horse,  a  black 
bearded  man  with  monstrous  flapping  ears,  General  Escobedo, 
rode  forth  to  meet  the  Hapsburg.  Then  Maximilian  forgot  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  and  thought  of  her  who  had  suffered  with 
him,  who  had  suffered  more  than  he,  to  hazard  this,  their 
dream. 

"It  is  our  throne,  Charlotte,"  he  murmured,  and  gave  up  his 
sword. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
EL  CHAPARRITO 

"  Meagre  were  his  looks, 
Sharp  misery  had  worn  him  to  the  bones." 

— Romeo  and  Juliet. 

A  FEW  days  later  Jacqueline  and  Berthe  attended  a  per- 
formance at  the  Teatro  de  Iturbide.  It  was  the  first  held  there 
since  the  beginning  of  the  siege,  and  to  the  place  late  foes  were 
thronging  eagerly  in  what  seemed  a  most  inordinate  thirst  for 
amusement.  The  playhouse  was  without  a  roof.  Its  metal 
covering  had  been  widely  sown  in  the  shape  of  bullets,  and  only 
a  canvas  overhead  kept  out  the  sun.  But  the  broiling  pit  was 
filled,  as  well  as  circling  tier  over  tier  of  loges,  and  in  the  street 
a  great  crowd  jostled  and  surged,  like  people  who  stare  at  the 
dead  walls  of  a  jail  because  a  man  is  being  hanged  inside.  If 
the  curious  cannot  have  both  Time  and  Space  to  their  liking, 
then  the  more  ghoulish  will  gorge  themselves  on  the  coincidence 
of  Time  alone.  "Now,"  they  whisper  awesomely,  "his  hands 
and  feet  are  being  strapped!  What  must  he  be  thinking  this 
very  instant,  and  we  standing  here?"  So  those  outside  the 
Teatro  de  Iturbide  sweated  patiently.  In  all  evidence  it  was 
not  an  ordinary  performance  scheduled  for  that  day. 

"Buzzards?"  said  Jacqueline,  looking  up  and  seeing  their 
outspread  wings  shadowed  on  the  canvas  roof,  "Fi  done,  that 
effect  is  long  since  shabby!"  But  it  chilled  her,  nevertheless. 

The  curtain  was  up.  A  drop,  showing  fields  in  green  and  a 
receding  road  in  brown,  filled  the  back.  The  actors  seemed 
actors  solely,  and  this  idea  persisted  with  the  Frenchwoman, 

443 


444  The  Missourian 

as  with  many  another,  throughout.  Seven  military  characters 
arranged  themselves  in  a  kind  of  state  on  the  unpainted,  slant- 
ing stage.  They  might  have  been  supernumeraries,  like  the 
"senators"  in  "Othello."  At  least  their  severe  demeanor 
became  them  awkwardly.  They  wore  uniforms,  but  not  of 
appalling  rank.  He  who  presided  was  only  a  lieutenant 
colonel,  the  other  six  were  captains.  Before  them,  each  on  a 
square  stool,  sat  two  generals,  one  with  a  bandaged  cheek. 
There  were  legal  gentlemen  in  plain  black,  while  guards  at 
stiff  attention  here  and  there  completed  the  grouping.  Beyond 
any  doubt,  it  was  a  trial  scene.  And  to  confirm  the  surmise, 
one  of  the  legal  gentlemen,  a  very  peaceable  appearing  youth, 
arose  and  in  the  Republic's  name  demanded  the  lives  of  Miguel 
Miramon  and  Tomas  Mejia — here  he  indicated  the  two  gen- 
erals— and  with  impressive  cadence,  also  in  the  Republic's 
name,  demanded  likewise  the  life  of  Fernando  Maximiliano  de 
Hapsburgo.  The  lieutenant  colonel  and  the  captains  knitted 
their  seven  tawny  brows  portentously,  but  they  were  not  in 
the  least  astounded  at  such  a  very  extraordinary  request. 

There  was  no  need  of  a  theatrical  production  at  all.  Other 
Imperialists  had  not  been  so  unnecessarily  distinguished,  as 
for  instance,  General  Mendez,  that  ancient  enemy  of  Regules 
and  executioner  of  Republicans  under  the  Black  Decree. 
Caught  the  day  Quere"taro  fell,  he  was  shot  in  the  back  as  a 
traitor.  Yet  he  met  a  legal  death.  Taken  in  armed  defiance 
of  the  Republic,  identity  established,  the  hollow  square  and 
shooting  squad,  such  was  the  routine  prescribed.  But  the 
lesser  official  relics  of  the  Empire,  six  hundred  in  all,  escaped 
generally  with  a  few  months  of  prison.  The  rank  and  file  of 
the  betrayed  army  had  already  melted  away.  But  for  the 
three  arch-culprits  a  trial  was  deemed  requisite,  and  President 
Juarez,  in  San  Luis  Potosi,  so  ordered.  Hence  the  stage  set- 
ting as  above  described. 

Maximilian  was  at  first  surprised.     He  had  said  to  Escobedp, 


El  Chaparrito  445 

"I  am  ready  to  go  whenever  you  can  favor  me  with  an  escort 
to  the  coast,  but  first  I  require  assurance  that  my  loyal  followers 
shall  not  suffer."  But  the  Republican  chief  had  smiled  oddly, 
and  locked  him  up.  Later,  however,  Maximilian  had  seemed 
content.  A  trial  for  his  life,  that  would  add  the  last  needed 
glamour  to  the  prestige  of  his  return  to  Europe.  So  he  affably 
humored  his  captors,  and  was  rewarded  with  humiliation — his 
judges  could  hardly  be  more  obscure.  So  as  he  was  genuinely 
sick  abed,  he  got  himself  excused  from  playing  his  part  in  the 
Teatro  Iturbide. 

The  soi-disant  Emperor  had  four  conscientious  defenders, 
chosen  from  Republican  jurists,  two  of  whom  were  then  in 
San  Luis  to  do  what  they  might  before  Juarez.  The  other  two 
spent  eloquence  and  acumen  on  the  court's  seven  tawny  brows. 
Their  first  point  came  from  Maximilian  himself.  It  was  com- 
placent, this  point.  The  naivete"  of  it  was  superb. 

"I  am  no  longer  Emperor,"  so  the  defense  ran,  "nor  was  I 
during  the  siege;  because,  before  leaving  the  capital,  I  drew 
up  my  abdication,  which  was  then  countersigned  by  my  minis- 
ters. However,  it  was  not  to  take  effect  until  I  should  fall 
prisoner." 

When  the  Republic  recovered  her  breath,  she  felt  in  her 
amusement  a  wounded  pride.  This  prince  must  think  her 
very  simple.  So,  she  was  to  recognize  the  usurper's  abdication 
after  she  had  fought  and  suffered  to  take  the  usurper?  A 
captured  thief  draws  from  his  pockets  a  quit-claim  deed  to 
the  plunder  he  has  stolen,  and  giving  it  to  the  court,  would 
therefore  go  free!  The  tragedy  changed  for  a  spell  to  comic 
opera.  And  matters  were  not  helped  greatly  when  next  were 
invoked  "the  immunities  and  privileges  which  pertain  under 
any  and  all  circumstances  to  an  archduke  of  Austria." 

Though  handicapped  by  their  client's  arrogance,  counsel 
yet  did  their  utmost.  They  argued  law  and  humanity,  with 
tremulo  effects.  They  prayed  that  "the  greatest  of  victories 


446  The  Missourian 

be  crowned  by  the  greatest  of  pardons."  But  it  was  of  no  use. 
The  bloodthirsty  stripling  persisted  in  the  Republic's  name. 
This  Maximiliano  was  a  Mexican.  In  many  beautiful  speeches 
the  said  Maximiliano  had  said  so.  Hence  he  could  not  evade 
responsibility  to  the  laws  of  his  adopted  country.  And  there 
was,  for  instance,  the  law  of  1862  concerning  treason. 

Well,  in  a  word,  the  three  accused  were  straightway  sen- 
tenced to  death;  and  Escobedo,  approving,  named  Sunday, 
June  1 6th,  for  the  execution.  It  might  be  mentioned  of  this 
Escobedo  that  on  two  former  occasions,  when  the  circumstances 
were  exactly  reversed,  Mejia  had  each  time  saved  his  life. 
Since  Quere"taro,  there  have  been  comments  on  the  vigor  of 
Escobedo's  memory. 

"Poor  pliant  Prince  Max,"  sighed  Jacqueline,  "he  is  still 
being  influenced  to  stay  in  Mexico!  Come,  Berthe,  we  must 
make  all  speed  to  San  Luis  and  see  the  Presidente." 

In  the  long  hall  of  the  Palacio  Municipal  at  San  Luis  Potosi, 
before  the  old-fashioned  desk  there,  sat  an  Indian.  He  was 
low  and  squat  and  pock-marked,  and  there  was  an  ugly  scar, 
livid  against  yellow,  across  the  upper  lip.  He  had  a  large 
mouth,  high  cheek-bones,  and  swarthy  skin  with  a  copper ish 
tinge.  He  was  a  pure-blooded  Indian.  At  twelve  he  did 
not  know  a  word  of  Spanish.  His  race,  the  Zapotecas  of 
Oaxaca,  had  all  but  been  extinguished  by  the  Conquest. 
Except  for  the  ungainly  black  he  wore — excepting,  too,  his 
character — he  might  have  been  a  peon,  or  still  the  servant  he 
once  had  been.  But  the  homely,  heavy  features  of  his 
round  head  did  not,  in  any  sense,  repel.  On  the  contrary, 
the  countenance  was  frank,  though  yet  inscrutable.  The 
piercing  black  eyes  were  good  eyes,  and  indomitable,  like  his 
muscled  jaw.  The  flat,  square  forehead  made  one  aware  of 
intellect,  and  of  force.  So  short  and  thick,  he  looked  a  sluggish 
man,  but  it  was  the  phlegm  of  a  rock,  the  calm  of  strength,  and 


El  Chaparrito  447 

whatever  the  peril,  almost  inanimate.  His  country  called  him 
Beneme'rito  de  America,  a  title  the  noblest  and  rarest  in  its 
Spartan  hint  of  civic  virtue. 

The  Indian's  desk  was  littered  with  messages  from  the  princes 
of  the  earth.  Like  his  expiring  race,  he  had  fought  their  order, 
and  they  had  made  of  him  a  wandering  fugitive.  But  now 
they  were  imploring  him  for  one  of  their  number,  whose  sur- 
rendered sword  that  moment  lay  across  their  petitions.  Two 
of  the  letters,  but  not  from  princes,  he  had  read  with  deep  con- 
sideration. One  was  from  the  President  of  the  United  States, 
the  other  from  Victor  Hugo.  But  these  also  he  shoved  from 
him,  though  regretfully,  and  now  he  was  gazing  out  over  the 
Plaza,  the  line  of  his  jaw  as  inflexible  as  ever. 

But  they  were  not  many,  the  moments  this  man  had  to  him- 
self, and  it  was  not  long  before  a  gendarme  in  coarse  blue, 
serving  as  an  orderly,  disturbed  him. 

"Well,  show  -her  in  then,"  he  said,  frowning  at  the  card 
laid  on  his  desk,  nor  did  he  rise  when  an  unusually  beautiful 
but  very  grave  young  woman  entered  the  room. 

"At  your  orders,  Senorita  de — d'Aumerle.  You  come,  I 
suppose,  to  save  him  ? — But,"  he  added  with  the  austerity  of  a 
parent,  "it  is  not  difficult  to  imagine  why  you  are  interested." 

"No,  Senor  Presidente,"  he  heard  himself  quietly  contra- 
dicted, "Your  Excellency  can  not  imagine." 

He  looked  up,  into  a  pair  of  honest  gray  eyes.  But  her  tone 
had  already  told  him  enough.  He  rose  to  his  feet  in  rugged 
courtesy.  The  Indian  was  a  wise  man,  and  he  knew  now  that 
other  men  had  whispered  falsely  about  one  exquisite  Parisienne. 

"Pardon  me,  child,"  he  said  gently.   "No,  I  cannot  imagine." 

Impulsively  Jacqueline  leaned  over  the  desk  and  gave  him 
her  hand.  "Thank  you,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  trembled 
unexpectedly.  From  that  moment,  too,  she  abandoned  tactics. 
The  wiles  of  courts  would  avail  nothing  against  the  primitive 
straightforwardness  of  the  man  before  her.  It  seemed,  more- 


448  The  Missourian 

over,  good  and  homely,  to  cast  them  aside.  She  took  a  seat 
near  the  window,  since  he  remained  standing  until  she 
did,  and  waited.  He  should  speak  first,  and  afterward, 
she  would  accept.  For  there  was  nothing,  she  felt,  that 
she  could  say.  O  rare  tongue  of  woman,  to  so  respect 
the  leash  of  intuitions! 

As  for  Don  Benito  Juarez,  he  had  not  meant  to  speak  at 
all.  But  knowing  her  now  to  be  not  what  he  had  thought,  he 
spoke  as  he  had  not  to  any  plenipotentiary  of  any  crowned 
head. 

"You  are  a  Frenchwoman,  senorita,"  he  began.  "Tell  me, 
your  coming  must  be  explained  by  that  ?  " 

"Now,"  said  Jacqueline,  smiling  on  him  cordially,  "Your 
Excellency's  imagination  is  getting  better." 

"And  you  wish  to  save  Maximilian,"  the  Presidente  stated, 
rather  than  questioned,  "because  he  is  a  victim  of  France." 

"Because  he  will  be  considered  so." 

The  old  Roman  smiled.  "  My  dear  young  lady,"  he  said,  "an 
answer  to  France  is  the  least  of  my  obligations.  Yet  you  expect 
it,  and  ask  for  clemency,  though  I  deny  all  the  great  nations?" 

"Oh  senor,  what's  the  use?    Let  him  go!" 

The  keen  black  eyes  regarded  her  quizzically.  "Do  you 
know,"  he  said,  "this  is  the  second  time  I've  heard  that 
question  to-day?  One  of  our  American  officers  had  himself 
put  in  command  of  the  escort  for  Maximilian's  two  lawyers 
here,  and  now  I  believe  he  did  it  simply  because  he  too  wanted 
to  know,  'What's  the  use?'  It  was  anti-climax,  and  a  wet 
blanket  over  the  fervid  eloquence  of  the  two  lawyers.  But 
nevertheless,  he  hit  the  one  argument." 

"Yes,  yes!" 

"In  a  word,  why  not  brush  aside  our  archduke?  He's 
harmless,  now,  he's  insignificant?  Why  not  take  from  him 
the  only  dignity  left,  that  of  dying?" 

"Of  course,  Senor  Juarez!     Of  course!" 


El  Chaparrito  449 

"And  at  the  same  time  win  bright  renown  for  ourselves, 
instead  of  what  will  be  called  harsh  cruelty?" 

"Surely!" 

The  smile  vanished.     The  large  mouth  closed  tightly. 

"No,"  spoke  the  judge  of  iron.  "He  dies!  That  is  the 
truest  mercy,  a  mercy  to  those  who  might  otherwise  follow  him 
here.  And  we,  senorita,  we  have  already  suffered  enough 
from  Europe." 

"But  the  other  two?"  pleaded  Jacqueline.  "They  are 
Mexicans." 

"They  are  that,  por  Dios,  and  they  make  me  proud  of  my 
race.  Miramon,  Mejia,  they  are  the  leaven.  They  redeem 
Lopez,  they  redeem  Marquez,  they  redeem  the  deserters  who 
now  so  largely  form  my  armies,  who  before  had  deserted  me 
for  the  French  invasion.  By  the  signal  example  of  these 
two  men  to  die  to-morrow,  the  world  shall  know  that  Mexicans 
are  not  all  traitors.  And  as  we  grow,  we  Mexicans,  we  may 
grow  beyond  the  empty  loyalty  of  glowing  Spanish  words. 
Remembering  such  an  example,  we  may  come  to  be,  in  our 
very  hearts,  breathing  things  of  honor.  We  have  been  shackled 
because  of  infamy  during  the  last  centuries.  Can  you  wonder, 
then,  that  we  use  the  treacherous  weapon  of  the  Conquista- 
dores  ? — But  that's  apart.  The  loyalty  of  Miramon  and  Mejia 
has  been  loyalty  to  an  invader,  a  wrong  their  country  will  not 
forgive.  But  our  cultured  gentleman  of  Europe,  our  vain 
fool  who  would  regenerate  the  poor  Indito,  he  will  perhaps  not 
feel  so  ashamed  of  us,  not  when  he  has  two  such  companions 
in  death,  and  not  when  he  learns,  though  painfully,  that  the 
rod  of  Mexican  justice  respects  neither  immunity  nor  privilege 
of  birth.  There,  senorita,  I've  had  to  talk  more  about  this  one 
individual  than  about  the  hundreds  of  others  who  have  been 
punished  for  much  less  than  he." 

"But  it  must  be  terrible  to  die,  serior.  And  he  doesn't 
realize,  while  a  delay  of  only  a  few  days " 


450  The  Missourian 

" Would  suffice  for  his  escape?" 

Jacqueline  reddened  guiltily.  "No,  to  prepare  for  his  end," 
she  said. 

The  Presidente  smiled  tolerantly.  "Never  fear,"  he  answered 
first  her  confusion,  "our  justice  stands  committed,  and  to 
wink  at  escape  now  would  be  cowardly.  Yet,  whether  you 
meant  it  or  not,  you  are  right,  and  the  execution  stands  post- 
poned until  the  nineteenth.  A  doomed  man  may  learn  much 
in  three  days  to  comfort  him — on  his  way.  But  the  criminal 
of  all  is  lacking." 

"Marquez,  you  mean?" 

"U'm,  him  also.  But  I  was  thinking  of  Louis  Napoleon, 
and  his  wife." 

The  order  of  postponement,  being  openly  telegraphed  to 
Escobedo  at  Querdtaro,  was  known  at  once  in  San  Luis,  and 
caused  a  fury  of  excitement.  For  none  doubted  but  that  it 
meant  eventual  pardon.  The  tender  hearted  rejoiced.  The 
rabid  ones  muttered.  The  wise  shook  dubious  heads.  And 
even  as  Jacqueline  and  Berthe  were  hurrying  back  to  Queretaro 
in  the  canvas-covered  coach,  another  caller  was  admitted 
roundly  on  the  president's  privacy,  without  so  much  as  being 
announced.  Juarez  wondered  if  his  orderly  had  gone  crazy, 
for  the  newcomer  thus  obsequiously  presented  looked  to  be  a 
species  of  ancient  vagabond. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  the  President  asked,  frowning 
heavily.  He  was  curiously  irritated.  "Stay,"  he  inter- 
posed, "those  dusty,  muddy  rags  you  have  on,  that  green 
and  red,  that's  not  a  Republican  uniform?" 

"It's  of  the  Batallon  del  Emperador,"  replied  the  stranger, 
unabashed. 

"Bless  me  the  saints!  Well,  well,  well,  I  suppose  you,  too, 
want  to  save  your  Maximilian.  But  how  does  it  happen  that 
you're  not  under  guard  yourself?" 

For  answer  the  old  man  came  nearer.     He  limped  feebly, 


El  Chaparrito  451 

and  the  while  he  unbuttoned  his  coarse  red  jacket.  Juarez 
watched  him  sluggishly,  but  with  a  hand  upon  a  revolver  under 
the  papers  on  his  desk.  The  stranger,  however,  drew  forth 
nothing  more  sensational  than  five  or  six  square  bits  of  parch- 
ment. Yet  these  aroused  the  President  more  than  a  weapon 
could  have  done.  They  were  blank,  except  at  the  bottom,  and 
there  the  President  read  his  own  signature,  "Benito  Juarez, 
Libertad  y  Reforma." 

"Your — Your  Excellency  remembers?" 
"How  well!"  The  admission  came  involuntarily.  Juarez 
was  laboring  under  an  emotion  that  he  could  not  at 
first  control.  He  stared  at  his  visitor  in  a  new  wonder.  So 
gaunt,  so  hollow,  so  utterly  insignificant!  The  President's 
wonder  grew. 

"You — you  gained  entrance  here  by  one  of  these  slips?" 
he  questioned  sharply.  The  old  man  nodded.  "And  it  was 
countersigned  by — 

"Si  senor,  by  El  Chaparrito.  The  slip  said,  'Admit  bearer 
at  once.'" 

"Then  I  cannot  blame  my  orderly !    But  who  are  you ? " 
"Anastasio  Murguia,  to  serve  Your  Mercy." 
"Bien,  Senor  Murguia,  and  now  will  you  explain  what  no 
other  messenger  from  our  unknown  friend  has  done  ?    Who — 
who  is  El  Chaparrito?" 

But,  like  the  wretched  messengers  who  had  gone  before, 
Anastasio  Murguia  only  shrugged  his  shoulders  blankly. 
"Your  Excellency  does  not  know  El  Chaparrito?"  he 
asked.  "And  yet  you  trusted  him,  a  stranger,  with  your 
signature  ?  " 

There  was  a  crafty  stress  on  his  words. 
"Ah,  senor,"   Juarez  placidly  inquired,  "what  if  a  chief 
magistrate  did  not  know  when  to  trust?    You  are  to  be  in- 
formed, then,  that  one  year  ago  last  October,  at  Chihuahua, 
I  was  saved  from  a  French  flying  column  by  an  Inditq.    The 


452  The  Missourian 

poor  wretch  had  run  across  the  desert  with  his  warning. 
But  he  could  prove  nothing.  He  couldn't  even  tell  who  sent 
him,  except  that  it  was  a  short  gentleman,  a  senor  chaparro. 
Yet  it  was  well  for  the  Republic  that  I  took  his  word  and 
fled.  Later,  when  I  reached  the  Rio  Grande,  and  he  wanted 
my  signature  to  some  blank  squares  of  parchment,  which  he 
was  to  take  back  to  his  senor  chaparro — well,  senor,  I  trusted 
again.  That  Indito  in  breech-clout  obtained  my  autograph 
some  twenty  times  over." 

The  President,  however,  might  have  added  that  every 
Republican  officer  was  advised  first  to  test  any  warning  on  any 
bit  of  parchment  signed  "Benito  Juarez."  Yet,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  there  came  to  be  such  magic  in  the  name  of  El  Chaparrito 
that  the  name  of  Juarez  thereto  was  only  needed  as  a  guarantee 
that  the  lesser  name  was  genuine. 

"Now,  then,  Senor  Emissary,"  said  the  President,  "what 
danger  hangs  over  our  Republic  this  time?" 

"None,  senor.  I  return  the  parchment  squares  left  over. 
El — El  Chaparrito  has  no  more  thoughts  for  the  Republic. 
He  thinks,"  and  Murguia  ground  his  knuckles  into  the  desk 
top,  "he  thinks  of  no  one,  of  no  one — except  Maximilian! 
And  he  has  never  thought  of  aught  else.  The  Republic? 
Bah,  the  Republic  was  only  his  tool,  Senor  Presidente. 
Only  his  tool,  but  the  tool  needed  sharpening.  They 
say  that's  the  way  with  the  guillotine,  eh,  Senor  Pres- 
idente?" 

"But  hombre — No,  our  unseen  friend  of  the  Republic,  our 
Chaparrito,  would  not  ask  for  Maximilian's  pardon?" 

"Pardon!" — It  was  fairly  a  cry  of  rage — "Yet  you,  Senor 
Presidente,  you  postpone  the  execution !  You  mean  to  pardon 
him!" 

"Indeed?" 

"Yes,  I — I  think  so.  But  you  shall  not,  Senor  Presidente. 
I  come  to,  to " 


El  Chaparrito  453 

"Now  that's  curious.  Possibly  I,  too,  am  to  be  sharpened 
into  a  kind  of  guillotine,  eh,  senor?" 

"All  the  others  were,"  Murguia  returned  stubbornly.  "That 
is,  all  except  one." 

"Ha,  then  El  Chaparrito  found  one  man  who  was  incorrupt- 
ible?" 

"Yes.  But  still  Your  Excellency  is  mistaken.  El  Chapar- 
rito did  not  use  money  to  win  his  agents.  That,  senor,  is  the 
unsafest  way  of  all." 

"You  would  tell  me,  senor,  that  El  Chaparrito  had  a  safe 
way?" 

"Yes,  and  it  was  absolute.  He  awakened  memory,  the 
memory,  Senor  Presidente,  of  wrongs.  For  example,  there 
was  Your  Excellency's  savior  in  breech-clout.  He  once  lived 
in  a  forest  village  down  in  the  Huasteca.  One  night  Dupin 
came  and  burned  the  huts,  and  the  Indito's  family  perished 
with  other  women  and  children  there.  That  village  alone  gave 
the  Chaparrito  many  another  messenger  or  spy,  but  memories 
left  by  the  Empire  were  plentiful  enough  everywhere,  and 
cheap.  The  Chaparrito  simply  drafted  them,  that  was  all. 
But  once  his  system  failed.  Yet — well  the  man  in  that  case 
was  an  American,  and  they  are  liable  to  be  exceptions  to  any 
rule,  to  any  passion.  But  in  the  end  he  was  safe  enough  too, 
though  something  else,  that  I  can't  understand,  made  him  so." 

"And  what  did  he  do,  this  American?" 

"He  took  me  to  Escobedo." 

"And  you?" 

"I  took  Lopez.     That  same  night  Queretaro  fell." 

"  You?  Now — now  to  what  particular  wrong  in  your 
case,  senor,  does  the  Republic  stand  thus  indebted?" 

Juarez  put  the  question  lightly,  even  patronizingly.  But 
his  steadfast  gaze  had  not  once  left  his  gaunt  and  battered 
visitor.  By  design,  too,  he  had  not  asked  a  second  time  who 
the  Chaparrito  was,  because  he  saw,  or  felt,  that  the  old  man 


454  The  Missourian 

knew,  though  former  emissaries  from  that  mysterious  source 
had  not  known.  And  Juarez  meant  to  possess  the  secret.  But 
with  his  casual  irony  he  never  looked  for  any  such  kindling  of 
memory  as  then  flashed  deep  in  the  cavernous  sockets  opposite 
him.  The  eyes  of  the  aged  man  glowed  and  darkened,  glowed 
and  darkened,  and  seemed  the  very  breathing  of  some  famished 
beast.  It  was  a  thing  to  startle  even  Benito  Juarez,  who  during 
many,  many  years  had  learned  the  meaning  of  civil  war.  The 
President  leaped  to  his  feet,  pointing  a  finger. 

"You  are,"  he  cried,  "yes,  you  are  the  Chaparrito! — No? — 
Yes!  Ha,  I've  struck,  I've  struck!" 

He  had  indeed.  The  colossal  guile  and  intellect  and  will, 
the  giant  whom  men  in  awe  called  El  Chaparrito,  was  only 
old,  withered  Anastasio  Murguia.  But  the  astute  Juarez 
knew  that  he  was  right.  He  knew  it  in  that  one  look  of  con- 
suming, conquering  hate.  He  knew  the  giant  in  that  hate. 
The  feeble  flesh,  Anastasio  Murguia,  was  an  incident.  Yet 
even  so,  only  the  President's  tenacity  held  him  to  where  his 
instinct  had  leapt.  For  under  discovery  Murguia  was  changed 
to  a  huddled,  abject  creature,  stammering  denial.  Yet  it 
must  be  true,  it  must.  The  strangest,  the  most  weird 
of  contrasts  in  the  same  soul  and  body — yet  it  must,  it 
•was  true! 

And  Murguia?  He  might  have  asked  for  reward,  and  had 
it.  But  his  was  rankest  despair.  His  work  was  not  finished, 
his  goal  not  attained.  And  now  his  most  potent  instrument  of 
all,  the  Chaparrito,  was  miserably  identified  in  his  own  self, 
was  taken  from  him. 

Juarez  rose  and  touched  his  shoulder,  "Come,"  he  said, 
"there's  much  too  much  tension  here.  Now  then,  sit  down, 
so.  Let  me  see,  you  said  your  name  was — yes,  Murguia. 
But — why,  Dios  mio,  that's  the  Huasteca  miser!  Well,  well, 
well,  and  so  you  are  that  rich  old  hacendado  who  never  gave 
even  a  fanega  of  corn  to  Republic  or  French  either,  unless 


El  Chaparrito  455 

frightened  into  it  ?  But  hombre,  we've  had  big  sums  from  the 
Chaparrito,  and  all  unasked!" 

And  yet  must  it  still  be  true,  yet  must  even  this  contrast 
accord.  El  Chaparrito  had  indeed  given  munificently.  But 
in  each  case  it  was  to  bridge  a  crisis.  As  the  shrewdest  general 
he  knew  a  vital  campaign,  and  aided,  if  need  be.  But  on  a 
useless  one  the  Republic's  soldiers  might  starve,  might  freeze, 
might  bleed  and  die,  without  ever  the  most  niggardly  solace 
ever  reaching  them  from  El  Chaparrito.  Economy  was  applied 
to  vengeance,  and  made  it  unspeakably  grim. 

"Once  though,"  Juarez  pursued,  "you  all  but  lost  your 
Maximilian  ?  I  mean  last  fall  when  he  started  for  the  coast. 
He  could  have  escaped  to  Europe." 

"I  know,"  said  Murguia  quietly,  " but  I  was  near  him.  If  he 
nad  not  turned  back,  I  would  have  done  it  myself." 

"It?" 

"The  justice  which  Your  Excellency  has  just  postponed 
three  days." 

"Dios  mio,  but  our  Chaparrito  is  a  dangerous  person! 
He'd  have  to  be  locked  up  if  Maximilian  were  pardoned." 

"But — but  Your  Excellency  will  not  pardon  him!" 

"To  be  sure,  I  had  forgotten.  I  am  to  be  given  a  memory. 
Well?" 

"Your  Excellency  remembers,  he  remembers  Zacatecas?" 

"Last  February?  Certainly  I  do.  Miramon  came,  but  a 
warning  from  El  Chaparrito,  from  you,  came  first,  and  a  last 
time  I  escaped.  As  it  was,  I  was  reported  captured,  and  I 
sometimes  wonder  what  Maximilian  would  have  done  had 
that  report  been  true." 

"If  I  should  tell  you,  senor?" 

"Ah,  that  is  beyond  even  you,  since  Maximilian  has  never 
had  the  chance  to  decide  my  fate." 

"But  he  did  decide,  senor.  He  got  word  that  you  were 
taken  at  Zacatecas,  and  at  once  he  sent  orders  to  Miramon  as 


456  The  Missourian 

to  your  treatment.     But  Miramon  was  already  defeated,  al- 
ready fleeing  to  Queretaro." 

"And  the  orders,  the  orders  from  Maximilian?" 
"They    never   arrived.     They   were   intercepted.     They — 
yes,  here  they  are,  but  before  reading  them,  will  Your  Excel- 
lency promise  to  imagine  himself  in  Miramon's  power?" 
"I  would,  naturally.     Come,  senior,  hand  them  over." 
It  made   curious  reading,  that  weather-blotched  dispatch. 
For  Don  Benito  Juarez  it  was  reading  as  curious  as  a  man 
may  ever  expect  to  come  by.     In  the  handwriting  of  his  prisoner, 
he  read  his  own  death  sentence. 

"Your — Your  Excellency  sees?"  Murguia  stammered 
hungrily. 

"H'm,  what,  for  example?" 

"Why,  that — that  Maximilian  would  not  have  pardoned?" 

"On    the    contrary,    senor    mio,    that    is    precisely    what 

the    generous    Maximilian    did    intend.      Listen  —  Miramon 

was    'to    delay   execution    until   His    Majesty    should    pass 

upon  it.'" 

"No — no,  Your  Excellency,  he  would  not  have " 

"O  ho,  so  you  think  you've  missed  your  last  stroke!  You 
think  that  there  is  no  memory  for  me  in  this  dispatch!  '  But 
don't  whine  so,  because,  man,  there  is,  there  is!  It  may  not 
be  the  memory  of  my  intended  death,  but  it  is  the  memory  of — 
intended  insult.  Oh,  what  a  patriot  he  must  have  thought  me, 
this  good,  regenerating  prince!  He  had  already  offered  to  make 
me  chief  justice.  But  this  time  he  would  have  saved  me  from 
his  own  Black  Decree.  And  I  would  have  been  touched  by 
his  clemency?  I  would  have  accepted,  the  grateful  tears 
streaming  from  my  eyes?  And  thus  I  would  be  regenerated? 
It  sounds  beautiful.  It  sounds  like  the  chivalrous  Middle 
Ages,  when  there  were  Black  Princes  along  with  the  Black 
Decrees.  My  liege  lord  he  would  have  been,  but  my  liege 
Patria,  what  of  her? — Well,  well,  well,  he  has  three  days  in 


El  Chaparrito  457 

which  to  understand  me  better,  and  to  think  of  his  own  regen- 
eration a  little." 

"Then,"  cried  Murgia,  limping  gleefully  toward  him, 
"then  there  will  be  no  pardon?" 

"I  see,"  said  Juarez,  suddenly  cold  and  very  calm,  "I  am 
now  corrupted.  I  am  now  safe,  like  the  others.  Take  that 
chair,  wait!" 

Saying  which  the  Presidente  left  his  desk,  clapped  his  hands 
for  the  orderly,  and  seated  himself  near  the  window.  To  the 
orderly  he  said,  "  Go  to  the  diligence  office  across  the  Plaza. 
Ask  for  Colonel  Driscoll,  the  American  officer  who  com- 
mands the  escort  of  the  two  lawyers.  Say  that  I  wish  to 
see  him  here  at  once." 

When  Driscoll  appeared,  Juarez  put  to  him  this  question, 
"Colonel — I'll  say  'General'  whenever  you  decide  to  be  a 
citizen  among  us — Colonel,  can  you  reach  Quere"taro  early 
to-morrow  morning  by  riding  all  night?" 

"Not  with  my  own  horse,  sir.  He's  getting  old,  and  deserves 
better." 

"Then  it's  all  right,  senor.  You  will  take  any  horse  you 
want.  I  have  telegraphed  to  stop  the  execution,  but  there's 
been  no  reply.  You  must  therefore  see  General  Escobedo 
yourself.  Look  on  my  desk.  Do  you  find  a  packet  there?" 

"Yes." 

"Sealed?  Well,  break  it  open.  Now  read  the  contents 
to  my  visitor  here." 

Driscoll  unfolded  a  long  sheet  of  foolscap,  and  began  to  read. 
Murguia  the  while  fidgeted  in  an  agony,  but  listening  further, 
his  limbs  grew  tense,  and  a  hideous  joy  overspread  his  face. 

"  '  But  at  sunrise  of  the  nineteenth  you  will  execute  the 
sentence  already  approved.'  " 

The  prisoners  were  not  to  be  deceived  by  false  hopes. 
There  would  be  no  further  appeal.  The  last,  the  final 
decision,  had  been  made. 


458  The  Missourian 

"I  have  signed  it,  I  believe,  Colonel  Driscoll?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  seal  it  again,  and  hurry!     Good-bye,  sir,  good-bye." 

When  Driscoll  was  gone,  the  Benemerito  of  America  turned 
to  the  grinning  hyena-like  old  man  who  was  his  visitor.  His 
own  dark  features  were  passionless,  impenetrable. 

"You  observe,  senor,"  he  said,  "that  Justice  does  not  require 
corrupting,  nor  even  a  memory.  So  let  El  Chaparrito  add  this 
to  his  philosophy,  that  he  need  not  boast  again  of  an  infallible 
spur  to  civic  loyalty,  for  he  will  never  find  it,  nor  I.  And  yet — 
there  is  patriotism." 


CHAPTER  XIX 
IN  ARTICULO  MORTIS 

"  The  centuries  are  conspirators  against  the  sanity  and  majesty 
of  the  soul.  .  .  .  Man  cannot  be  happy  and  strong  until  he  lives 
in  the  present." — Emerson. 

FOR  Maximilian  it  was  the  eve  of  execution.  The  soul 
feels  that  there  is  much  to  decide  at  such  a  time,  but  under 
the  nettling  merciless  load  the  soul  will  either  flounder  pitifully 
and  decide  nothing,  else  lie  numb  and  in  a  half  death  vain- 
gloriously  believe  that  it  has  decided  everything.  So  may  the 
condemned  be  open-eyed  or  blind.  Or,  according  to  the 
police  reporter,  be  either  coward  or  stoic.  But  it  really  de- 
pends in  large  measure  on  whether  realization  be  dulled,  or  no. 

Maximilian  had  too  late  come  to  understand  that  his  anointed 
flesh  was  violable  at  all.  He  learned  it  only  when  the  death 
watch  was  actually  set  on  his  each  remaining  breath.  And 
now  he  was  en  capilla,  in  the  chapel  of  the  doomed ;  he,  Ferdi- 
nand Maximilian  Joseph,  Archduke  of  Austria,  Prince  of 
Hungary  and  Bohemia,  Count  of  Hapsburg,  Prince  of  Lorraine, 
Emperor  of  Mexico,  even  He! 

They  had  given  him  the  tower  room  of  Queretaro's  old 
Capuchin  church,  and  against  the  wall  was  an  improvised 
altar.  But  the  sacrament  waited.  The  tapers  on  the  snow- 
white  cloth  were  as  yet  unlighted.  Instead  the  Most  Serene 
Archduke — Emperor  no  longer — read  from  a  battered  volume 
of  Universal  History,  which,  with  a  book's  queer  vagaries,  had 
strayed  into  his  cell.  He  read  how  Charles  of  England  had 
died,  then  he  paused,  blinking  at  the  two  candles  on  the  rough 

459 


460  The  Missourian 

table.  They  were  vague  shapes,  they  were  horrors,  which  he 
now  began  to  see,  as  the  visions  of  Truth  so  often  are  when 
hazily  perceived. 

He  bitterly  envied  that  unhappy  Stuart,  who,  before  his 
palace  window,  among  Cavaliers  and  Roundheads,  had  died 
in  majesty,  the  bright  central  figure  in  a  tragedy  of  august 
magnitude.  But  for  the  Hapsburg  how  sordid,  how  mean, 
it  all  would  be !  He  could  see  already  the  gaping,  yellow  faces, 
sympathetic  in  their  stupidity.  They  would  not  really  know  that 
a  prince  was  dying.  The  very  guard  with  shouldered  bayonet 
outside  his  door  was  a  deserter,  and  it  was  this  man,  more 
than  aught  else,  that  gave  him  to  chafe  against  his  ignoble 
lot.  The  fellow  never  uttered  a  word,  indeed;  but  he  had  a 
heavy,  malignant  eye,  and  each  time  he  passed  the  large  inner 
window  that  opened  on  the  corridor  he  would  look  into  the 
cell,  as  though  to  locate  his  prisoner.  Then  Maximilian  could 
feel  the  insolent,  mocking  gleam  upon  himself,  until  for  rage 
he  clenched  his  fist. 

Thus  the  Most  Serene  Archduke's  first  perception  of  calamity 
was  not  that  royal  blood  was  to  flow,  but  that  it  was  to  flow 
obscurely.  Even  the  ancient  raven  curse,  the  curse  of  the 
Habicht  which  had  given  his  House  its  very  name,  was  now 
fulfilled  by  unclean  buzzards.  He  saw  them  each  day,  perched 
on  the  neighboring  roofs. 

He  sighed  and  turned  to  his  book.  Universal  History? 
Yes,  but  for  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years  that  history  of 
millions  and  millions  of  people  was  no  more  than  the  record 
of  his  own  little  family  group.  Such  a  course  of  reading  for 
such  a  man  held  a  terrible  grandeur,  and  it  must  have  been 
a  unique  sensation  of  pride  that  touched  the  golden-bearded, 
ultra-refined  viking  prince.  A  spoilt  child  he  was,  and  though 
so  cruelly  reproved  by  Life,  he  yet  could  learn  no  lesson  in 
the  passing  footnote  that  he  would  add  to  that  family  record. 
He  could  not  see  that  the  light  which  made  the  printed  char- 


In  Articulo  Mortis  461 

acters  so  dazzling,  yet  distorted  them.  He  could  not  know 
that  the  commonest  man  of  the  millions  and  millions  might 
read  that  Universal  History  by  quite  a  different  and  a  calmer 
light.  But  he  was  aware  of  the  sentinel's  tread  back  of 
him,  and  aware  too  of  the  fellow's  coarse,  familiar  leer. 

One  consolation  he  felt  he  might  have  had,  and  this  was 
the  dignity  of  martyrdom.  But  no  one,  alas,  seemed  to  regard 
him  as  a  martyr  at  all.  He  had  begged  that  he  alone  should 
suffer.  But  the  play  at  knightly  generosity  was  too  shallow. 
For  at  the  time  Maximilian  believed  that  he  would  not  suffer 
in  any  case.  Later,  though,  when  he  knew  that  he  must  die, 
then  with  simple  earnestness  he  had  pleaded  for  Miramon 
and  Mejia,  and  forgot  himself  altogether.  But  Juarez  had 
hardly  more  than  acknowledged  the  telegram,  and  now  in 
the  cell  next  him  Miramon  was  confessing,  and  in  the  cell  on 
his  other  side  Mejia  waited.  Each  of  these  two  men  would 
leave  a  wife  and  child. 

Someone  knocked.  "No,  father,  not  yet,"  Maximilian 
answered  gently,  although  his  mood  was  impatience.  The 
confessor  sighed  in  protest  against  the  waste  of  precious  time, 
but  he  did  not  move  away,  as  he  had  already  twice  before 
during  the  night.  Instead  he  came  and  stood  at  the  corridor 
window.  His  lip  trembled  pityingly.  There  was  news,  he 
said. 

Maximilian  pushed  back  the  book,  and  was  on  his  feet.  The 
priest  meeting  his  eager  look,  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"It  comes  from — from  Miramar"." 

Maximilian  fell  back.  One  hand  groped  out  involuntarily, 
as  in  appeal  before  a  blow.  "News  of  Charlotte?"  he  asked 
faintly. 

Charlotte  was  dead,  the  priest  told  him. 

During  a  long  time,  after  the  priest  had  gone,  his  head  lay 
on  his  arms,  between  the  two  candles.  He  heard  no  more  the 
sentry  challenges,  nor  sensed  the  menace  in  every  slightest 


462  The  Missourian 

sound  of  the  dark  night  outside.  There  was  something  else. 
"  Death  ?  "  At  first  he  did  not  consciously  strive  for  an  answer. 
But  the  question  kept  falling,  and  falling  again,  as  a  lash.  The 
vulgar  hands  which  plied  the  scourge,  the  stupid  yellow  faces, 
these  no  longer  mattered.  He  felt  the  blows  themselves,  only 
the  blows. 

She  had  died,  the  poor  maniac!  She  had  died,  a  thing  for 
the  lowliest  pity.  And  this  was  true  of  the  haughty  child  of 
Orleans  because  she  had  wanted  a  throne.  Slowly  her  husband 
raised  his  head;  and  staring  at  the  wall,  his  tear-dimmed  eyes 
opened  wider  and  wider.  Because  she  had  wanted  a  throne? 
Because  she  had  wanted  a  dais  above  the  meek  and  lowly, 
above  those  who  now  pitied  her !  His  eyes  fell  on  the  Universal 
History — the  family  record,  and  there  grew  in  his  eyes  a  look 
of  detestation.  Groaning  suddenly,  he  buried  his  head  again 
in  his  arms. 

At  dawn  he  too  was  to  die,  and  because  he  too  had  craved 
a  sceptre.  Yet,  and  yet,  he  had  meant  to  be  an  instrument 
of  good.  Born  of  kings,  anointed  by  the  Vicar  of  Christ,  he 
had  come  as  agent  from  the  Almighty.  But  God  had  failed 
to  sustain  him,  God  had — again  the  blue  eyes  raised,  but  dry 
now,  and  stark  in  terror.  "Yes,  yes,  yes,"  so  his  reeling  soul 
cried  to  him,  "there  is  a  God!  There  is,  there  is!"  One 
sharp  breath,  and  the  mortal  fear  passed.  In  ghastly  panic 
he  crept  back  from  the  brink,  either  of  the  atheist's  despair 
or  of  the  madman's  chaos.  But  the  cost  was  heavy.  Since 
God  did  exist,  and  God  yet  had  failed  him,  then  it  was  the 
man's  Divine  Right  that  must  be  false.  He,  only  a  man,  had 
mistaken  his  Destiny.  Nay,  had  he  a  Destiny?  Or  why, 
more  than  another  man  ?  Here,  then,  was  the  cost.  To  keep 
his  hope  of  Heaven,  he  stepped  down  among  the  millions  and 
millions.  His  Divine  Right,  crumbling  under  the  grandeur  of 
partition  among  the  millions,  became  for  himself  the  most 
infinitesimal  of  shares,  neither  greater  nor  less  than  that  of  any 


In  Articulo  Mortis  463* 

other  human  being.  But  glorified  now  by  the  holy  alchemy 
of  Charity,  the  tiny  grain  became  divine  indeed,  and  he  beheld 
it  as  a  glowing  spark,  his  own  inalienable  share  in  the  rights  of 
man.  So,  for  a  moment,  the  poet  prince  knew  again  his  old- 
time  exultation.  Even  Truth,  he  now  perceived,  had  her 
sublimities. 

But  the  pall  of  horror  fell  again.  To-morrow  he  was  to  die. 
He  was  to  die  because  his  life  long  he  had  sought  to  rob  others 
of  the  tiny  grain,  of  their  God-given  dignity  as  men,  and  that 
too,  even  as  they  were  awaking  to  its  possession.  The  vanity, 
the  presumptuous,  inconsistent  vanity  of  it  all!  Under  the 
dark  mediaeval  cloak  he  had  planned  enlightenment,  he,  who 
had  tried  to  rule  without  parliament,  without  constitution! 
He  would  have  made  a  people  believe  in  God's  injustice,  in 
God's  choice  of  a  man  like  them  to  be  a  demigod  over  them. 
Hence  the  blasphemous  demigod  had  now  to  answer  to  human 
law.  And  it  was  meet  and  right.  Purgatory  was  beginning  on 
the  eve  of  his  death. 

He,  the  torch  of  Progress!  Maximilian  smiled  scornfully 
on  himself.  He  was  only  a  clod  of  grit  caught  in  the  world's 
great  wheels.  The  foreign  substance  had  wrought  a  discordant 
screech  for  a  moment,  and  then  was  mercilessly  ground  into 
powder  and  thrust  out  of  the  bearings.  He  pondered  on  the 
first  days  of  the  Family  Group,  when  there  was  extenuation; 
more,  when  there  was  necessity,  for  a  king.  At  any  rate  the 
monarch  then  earned,  or  could  earn,  his  pomp  and  state  by 
services  actually  rendered.  And  now?  The  Hapsburg  de- 
cided that  there  was  not  a  more  contemptible  parasite  on  the 
body  politic.  The  crowned  head  was  simply  the  first  among 
paupers.  He  had  his  bowl  of  porridge,  which  was  the  civil 
list. 

The  doomed  prince  sank  to  a  depth  of  shame  that  may  not 
be  conceived.  He  was  humanity's  puny  infant.  He  had 
dawdled  among  men  centuries  older  than  himself.  His 


464  The  Missourian 

whole  being  was  out  of  harmony  with  the  universe.  Fate  had 
held  his  soul  fast  during  those  Dark  Ages  when  he  might  have 
striven  nobly,  and  now  had  cast  it  forth,  an  anachronism.  It 
was  a  soul  misplaced  in  eternity.  The  dire  realization  grew 
and  grew,  and  with  it  the  tragic  agony,  until  with  a  sudden 
and  the  bitterest  of  cries  he  flung  up  his  arms  and  fell  heavily 
across  the  table. 

"My  life!"  he  moaned  in  piteous  begging  for  something 
he  might  not  have.  "My  life,  to  live  my  life  over  again!  " 

In  the  first  light  of  morning  Escobedo  came.  The  Repub- 
lican general  unfolded  a  paper,  and  began  to  read.  But  in- 
stead of  the  death  sentence,  it  was  reprieve.  President  Juarez 
had  postponed  execution  for  three  days. 

"Three  days?"  Maximilian  repeated,  wearily  shaking  his 
head.  "  If  your  Republic  could  give  me  as  many  centuries,  but 
three  days! — Three  days,  in  which  to  live  my  life!" 


CHAPTER  XX 

KNIGHTHOOD'S  BELATED  FLOWER 

"Trusting  to  shew,  in  wordes  few, 
That  men  have  an  ill  use 
(To  their  own  shame)  women  to  blame, 
And  causeless  them  accuse." 

— The  Nut-Brown  Maid. 

LATER  the  same  morning  there  sounded  the  ineffable  swish 
of  silken  petticoats  along  the  corridor  and  the  clinking  of  high 
heels  on  the  tiles.  La  Senorita  Marquesa  d'Aumerle  had 
obtained  permission  to  visit  His  Most  Serene  Highness.  The 
sentinel  of  the  evening  before  was  again  on  duty,  and  his  evil 
crossed  eye  seemed  to  lighten  with  vast  humor  as  he  presented 
arms  for  the  lady  to  pass.  She  met  his  insolence  with  a  search- 
ing, level  gaze. 

Maximilian  hastened  to  the  door  of  his  bare  cell,  and  took 
both  her  hands  in  his.  "I  am  beginning  to  recognize  my 
friends,"  he  said  simply.  "I  know,  I  know,"  he  added,  "you 
come  to  tell  me  that  you  failed  to  get  the  pardon.  But  you  do 
bring  reprieve." 

He  would  have  her  believe  that  he  valued  that. 

Jacqueline  regarded  steadily  the  tall,  slight  figure  in  black, 
with  the  pinioned  sheep  of  the  Golden  Fleece  about  his  neck, 
and  she  sighed.  She  was  disappointed  in  him.  She  had 
thought  that  pride  of  race,  if  nothing  more,  would  give  him 
character  during  these  last  moments.  She  allowed,  too,  for 
the  grief,  and  the  remorse,  in  the  blow  of  Charlotte's  death. 
But  she  was  not  prepared  for  the  roving  eyes,  the  disordered 
mind,  the  feverish  unrest  of  the  condemned  prince.  Had  his 


466  The  Missourian 

soul,  then,  been  a  cringing  one  throughout  the  night  just  past  ? 
It  was  the  first  time  she  had  seen  him,  except  at  a  distance, 
since  the  day  she  arrived  in  Queretaro,  for  she  had  chosen, 
and  perhaps  maliciously,  to  disconcert  the  tongue  of  slander. 
Hence  she  could  not  picture  the  ravages  of  sickness  and  anxiety, 
until  now  when  she  beheld  his  haggard  face.  It  was  one  to 
bring  a  pang.  The  cheeks  were  hollow,  the  lines  sharply 
drawn,  and  the  skin  was  white,  so  very  white,  with  never  a 
fleck  of  pink  remaining.  And  staring  from  the  wasted  flesh 
were  the  eyes,  large  and  round  and  faded  blue,  and  in  them  an 
appealing,  a  haunted  look.  But  they  softened  at  sight  of 
her,  as  though  comforted  already. 

"A  reprieve  is  best,"  he  said.  "You  cannot  think  that  I 
want  a  pardon,  now  that,  that  she  is  dead!" 

"But  sire " 

"'Sire'?  Ah,  my  lady,  you  are  a  little  late,  by  something 
like  a  few  hundred  years.  You  see  our  American  was  right 
after  all;  a  letter  no  longer  makes  a  king." 

It  was  a  bon  mot  that  Maximilian  had  always  enjoyed,  it 
being  his  own,  but  this  time  he  was  most  zealously  in  earnest. 

"Monsieur,  then,"  she  said,  in  no  mood  for  reforms  of 
etiquette.  "Only,  let  me  talk!  We  have  three  days,  three 
days  which  are  to  be  used.  Your  Highness  must  escape!" 

But  now  she  understood  him  less  than  before,  for  he  only 
smiled  wearily.  It  was,  then,  something  else  than  fear  that 
had  broken  him  so. 

Escape?  And  that  guard  in  the  corridor?  Passing,  ever 
passing,  the  diabolical  humorist  seemed  to  chuckle  inwardly, 
as  though  to  stand  death-watch  were  the  most  exquisite  of 
jokes. 

"That  man?"  whispered  Jacqueline.  "Why,  that's  Don 
Tiburcio.  He  was  driven  out  of  the  Imperialist  ranks  by 
Father  Fischer.  But  from  his  lips,  this  very  night,  Your 
Highness  will  hear  that  the  road  is  open  to  Vera  Cruz.  Ah 


Knighthood's  Belated  Flower  467 

sire — monsieur — we  have  been  working,  we  others.  There 
will  be  horses  ready,  there  will  be  a  long  ride,  and  then,  you 
will  safely  board  an  Austrian  ship  waiting  for  you. 

Maximilian  slowly  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  said,  "I  am 
ready  to  die,  as — as  ready  as  I  shall  ever  be." 

"But  the  remaining  years  of  your  natural  life,  Your  Highness 
counts  them  as  nothing!  Yet  you  might  live  twice  your 
present  age!" 

"My  life — over  again,"  he  murmured  dreamily. 

"Of  course,  why  not?" 

"  One  year  to  redeem  each  year  that  has  gone." 

"Years  of  Destiny!"  she  cried,  thinking  to  touch  him  there. 

"No!"  he  exclaimed,  so  harshly  and  quick  that  it  startled 
her.  "But  for  me  they  will  be  years  of  dearest  mercy.  Wait, 
tell  me  first,  Miramon  and  Mejia — 

"Yes,  yes,  we  will  save  them  too.     Only,  the  risk  is  greater." 

"Bien!"  He  had  almost  accepted,  but  he  smothered  the 
word,  and  starting  up,  began  to  pace  the  room.  At  last  he 
stopped.  "The  risk  must  be  lessened,  for  them,"  he  said. 
"/  will  remain." 

"H'm'n,"  the  girl  ejaculated,  "Hamlet  declines?  Then 
there  will  be  no  play  at  all,  at  all." 

Maximilian  knew  how  stubborn  she  could  be;  and  so, 
reluctantly,  he  joined  the  plot. 

"I  have  deserved  Marquez  and  Fischer  and  Lopez,"  he 
sighed.  "But  why  there  should  be  friends,  even  now,  that  I 
cannot  understand." 

Yet  she  told  him  bluntly  why  she  wanted  his  safety.  It 
was  on  France's  account.  Still,  his  gratitude  was  no  less 
profound.  She  who  would  give  life  to  others,  what  was  her 
life  to  be  henceforth?  The  mellowing  sorrow,  which  her 
vivacity  could  not  hide,  smote  him  again,  as  it  had  that  evening 
in  Mexico  when  he  came  to  her  for  counsel.  He  remembered. 
Out  of  a  useless  ambition  for  her  country  she  had  squandered 


468  The  Missourian 

her  name,  blighted  her  future.  He  remembered  how,  looking 
on  her  saddened  face,  he  had  been  exalted  to  a  pure  devotion, 
and  had  burned  with  knightly  fervor  to  do  her  some  impossible 
service.  But  what  was  the  service  ?  There  his  memory  failed, 
and  he  despised  the  chivalrous  ardor  which  could  be  quenched 
with  feeding  on  itself.  After  the  fearful  vigil  of  the  night  before, 
he  had  found  a  suit  of  armor  beside  him.  In  a  word,  he  had 
forgotten  self.  Simple  compassion  was  enough.  That  service  ? 
that  service  ?  If  he  could  only  remember.  But  he  must.  And 
in  hot  anger  he  strode  back  and  forth,  while  Jacqueline  sat  and 
gazed  in  wonder.  Once,  turning  from  the  corridor  window,  he 
paused.  The  guard  had  stopped  a  man,  who  now  was  evi- 
dently waiting  until  the  prisoner  should  be  unoccupied.  Un- 
seen himself,  Maximilian  recognized  in  the  man  the  American 
named  Driscoll.  And  then  he  remembered.  He  remem- 
bered Jacqueline's  secret,  betrayed  to  him  that  evening  in 
Mexico.  He  remembered  that  her  happiness  was  lost  in  the 
loss  of  this  man's  respect.  Here,  at  last,  lay  the  impossible 
service ! 

Maximilian  glanced  toward  her  stealthily.  No,  from  where 
she  sat  she  could  not  see  the  corridor,  could  not  see  the  waiting 
American.  A  moment  later  Maximilian  stood  behind  her; 
and  when  he  spoke,  she  thought  it  odd  that  he  should  change 
from  French  to  halting  English. 

"Miss  d'Aumerle,"  he  began,  in 'distinct  if  nervous  phrasing, 
"yes,  it  was  for  France,  all,  all  of  which  you  haf  done.  There- 
fore is  it  that  you  haf  come  to  this  country,  and  here  to  Quere*- 
taro,  whatever  is  to  the  contrary  said." 

"De  grace,"  she  laughed,  rising  abruptly,  "there's  enough 
to  do  to-day  without  discussing " 

But  he  intercepted  her  even  as  she  opened  the  door. 

"Will  Your  Highness  kindly  let  me  pass?" 

"And  I  know,  I  alone,  that  nefer  haf  you  toward  myself 
once  felt,  once  shown,  that  which " 


Knighthood's  Belated  Flower  469 

A  sharp,  indignant  cry  escaped  her.  Following  her  gaze  he 
saw  the  American  pass  on  down  the  corridor  and  out  of 
hearing. 

"Now  who,"  exclaimed  the  chagrined  prince,  "would  ever 
have  imagined  such  delicacy  of  breeding!" 

"And  don't  ever  again,"  cried  Jacqueline  furiously,  "im- 
agine that  /  stand  in  need  of  being  righted!"  Wherewith  she 
too  was  gone,  leaving  her  clumsy  knight  staring  blankly 
after  her. 

A  few  moments  later  Driscoll  knocked. 

It  was  the  first  meeting  of  these  two  men  since  the  memor- 
able afternoon  at  Cuernavaca,  when  Driscoll  had  surprised 
Jacqueline  listening  to  royalty's  shameless  suit.  Now  he  beheld 
Fatality's  retribution  for  that  day's  bitterness.  Retribution, 
yes.  But  it  was  not  restitution.  The  girl  he  loved  had  just 
passed  him  in  the  corridor  with  a  slight  casual  nod,  and  he 
would  not,  could  not,  stretch  forth  a  hand  to  stop  her.  Instead, 
the  smile  so  ironical  of  Fate  had  touched  his  lips. 

"I  was  sent  by  Senor  Juarez,  sir,"  he  addressed  the  arch- 
duke in  the  tone  of  military  business.  "The  President  is 
afraid  your  three  days  of  reprieve  will  be  misunderstood.  He 
sent  for  me  as  I  was  leaving  San  Luis  yesterday,  and  I — I  was 
to  tell  you " 

"You  need  not  hesitate,  colonel." 

"Well,  that  you  must  not  hope  for  pardon,  for  the  sentence 
will  positively  be  carried  out  day  after  to-morrow.  That — I 
believe  that  is  all." 

"But — "  Maximilian  called,  staying  him.  "Dios  mio, 
such  news  merits  a  longer  telling.  It  seems  to  me  too,  Senor 
Americano,  that  you  should  enjoy  it  the  more,  since  it  was 
partly  you  who  brought  me  to  this." 

"I  don't  know  as  I'd  thought  of  that.     How ? " 

"You  ask  how?  Do  you  forget  how  you  took  the  traitor 
Lopez  to  Escobedo,  the  night  I  was  betrayed?" 


-470 


The  Missourian 


Driscoll  swung  bluntly  round  on  his  questioner.  "No  I 
don't,"  he  replied.  "But  you  see,  there  was  such  a  lot  of 
bloodshed  scheduled  for  the  next  day?" 

"Isn't  that  rather  a  curious  reproof  from  a  soldier?  Loyal 
hearts  would  have  bled,  yes,  and  gladly.  Noble  fellows,  they 
would  have  saved  their  Emperor!" 

Driscoll  half  snorted,  and  turned  on  his  heel.  But  he 
stopped,  his  lips  pressed  to  a  clean,  hard  line.  "What 
of  those  townsmen  in  the  trenches?"  he  demanded.  "It 
wasn't  their  fight." 

Maximilian's  eyes  opened  very  wide,  and  slowly  his  ex- 
pression changed.  The  thick  lower  lip  drooped  and  quivered. 
Suddenly  he  came  nearer  the  American,  a  trembling  hand 
outstretched. 

"I  was  saved  that,"  he  murmured  earnestly. 

"They  were,"  the  grim  trooper  corrected  him. 

"The  townsmen,  yes.  But  I — I  was  kept  from  murder. 
God  in  heaven,  I  would  have  murdered  them!  Ah,  senor,  if 
I  could  put  to  my  account  a  night's  work  such  as  yours,  that 
night,  when  you  used  the  traitor!  I  could  almost  thank  Lopez. 
I  do  thank  you." 

Still  Driscoll  failed  to  notice  the  proffered  hand.  He  might 
have,  had  he  seen  his  suppliant's  face,  and  the  tense  anguish 
there. 

"Those  innocent  non-combatants,  then,"  Maximilian  went 
on,  "so  they  counted  more  than  a  prince  with  you?" 

"Of  course,  there  were  a  thousand  of  'em." 

The  other's  haggard  look  gave  way  to  a  smile,  half  sad,  half 
amused,  and  taking  the  American  by  the  shoulder  in  a  grip 
almost  affectionate,  he  said,  "Colonel,  did  you  ever  happen 
to  know  of  one  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha  ?  Well,  lately  I've 
begun  to  think  that  he  was  the  truest  of  gentlemen,  though  now 
I  believe  I  could  name  another  who 

"And,"  interrupted  Driscoll,  "did  you  ever  try  to  locate  the 


Knighthood's  Belated  Flower  471 

most  dignified  animal  that  walks,  bipeds  not  excepted  ?  Well, 
sir,  it's  the  donkey.  Take  him  impartially,  and  you'll  say  so 
too." 

The  strain  was  over.  Maximilian  laughed.  "If  Don 
Quixote  had  only  had  your  sanity!"  he  began;  "or  rather," 
he  added,  charmed  with  the  conceit,  "if  knighthood  had  had  it, 
then  the  poor  don  would  never  have  been  needed  to  be  born  at 
all." 

Ignoring  the  sincerity  of  the  Hapsburg's  new  philosophy,  and 
how  tragically  it  was  grounded,  Driscoll  only  smiled  in  a  very 
peculiar  way.  Knighthood?  The  word  was  supercilious 
cant,  and  irritated  him.  During  that  very  moment,  while 
listening  to  Chivalry's  devotee,  the  young  trooper  thought  of  a 
little  ivory  cross  in  his  pocket,  a  cross  which  was  stained  with  a 
girl's  blood.  Murguia  had  given  it  to  him,  to  give  to  Maximilian 
on  the  eve  of  execution.  But  Driscoll  had  not  promised,  and 
yet  Murguia  had  implored  him  to  take  it,  even  without  promis- 
ing. The  old  man  held  faith  in  vengeance  as  a  spring  to  drive 
all  souls  alike,  and  if  Maximilian's  last  earthly  moment  could 
be  embittered  with  sight  of  a  cross,  then,  he  firmly  believed,  the 
American  needed  only  to  be  tempted  with  the  means  to  do  it. 
Moreover,  in  a  sudden  impulse,  Driscoll  had  taken  the  holy 
symbol,  "to  do  with  as  he  chose."  There  was  no  message, 
Murguia  had  explained.  The  Senor  Emperador  would  read 
the  graven  name,  "Maria  de  la  Luz,"  and  that  would  suffice. 

Looking  now  on  the  cultured  gentleman  caressing  his  beard, 
Driscoll  thought  again  how  hellishly  distorted  was  the  sign  of 
salvation  then  in  his  pocket.  But  he  left  it  there.  He,  too, 
had  a  king's  pride,  incapable  of  low  spite.  Charity  alone, 
though,  would  have  held  him,  if  he  had  but  known  that  Maxi- 
milian was  ignorant  of  the  dead  girl's  fate. 

The  archduke  for  his  part  had  been  amiable  and  conciliatory, 
because  there  was  a  certain  delicate  question  he  wished  to  ask. 

"Oh  by  the  way,  mi  coronel,"  he  said  abruptly,  "I  must 


472  The  Missourian 

extend  my  excuses  for  keeping  you  waiting  in  the  corridor  just 
now.  But  there  was  another  visitor  here.  And  as  we  hap- 
pened to  be  talking  of — well,  of  a  rather  personal  matter,  not 
intended  for  outside  ears — 

"Do  not  worry.  When  you  raised  your  voice,  I  turned  and 
left." 

"But  perhaps,"  said  Maximilian  slowly,  "it  would  have 
been  better  if  you  had  overheard,  either  you  or  another  knowing 
the  cruel  rumors  which — which  link  my  recent  visitor's  name 
with  my  own.  Then  the  truth  would  have  been  made  known. 
That  truth,  senor,"  he  hastened  to  add,  despite  a  hardening 
frown  between  the  American's  eyes,  "means  first  that  I  have 
been  honored,  indeed,  in  my  visitor's " 

He  got  no  further.     A  broad  hand  closed  over  his  mouth. 

"Another  word  of  that,  and  I'll— I'll " 

The  threat  was  left  unfinished.  Gasping  in  the  chair  where 
he  had  fallen,  Maximilian  found  himself  alone.  He  was 
vaguely  nonplussed.  There  had  been  so  many  revelations  of 
late  that  he  thought  this  one  simply  a  further  re-adjusting  of 
himself  to  the  modern  world  of  men.  The  present  instance 
had  to  do  with  the  critical  juncture  where  the  woman  enters. 
But  he  had  learned  something  else,  too.  The  American  loved 
her,  and  that  was  important.  Yet  lovers  were  very  contrary 
beings,  he  mused  lugubriously. 

"Still,  I  shall  try  again,"  he  decided.  "One  humble  suc- 
cess against  my  career  of  distinguished  failures  should  not  be 
too  much  to  expect." 

The  night  that  followed,  a  black,  favorable  night,  was 
the  time  planned  for  escape.  Horses  ready  saddled  waited 
outside  the  town  under  the  aqueduct.  Certain  guards 
were  bribed,  among  them  Don  Tiburcio.  The  humorous 
rascal  had  driven  a  hard  bargain,  but  only  because  the  money 
was  to  be  had.  He  would  have  sold  himself  as  briskly  for  the 
cream  of  the  jest. 


Knighthood's  Belated  Flower  473 

Late  the  same  night  there  came  a  frantic  pounding 
at  DriscolPs  door,  where  he  was  quartered  in  the  sacristy 
of  the  old  Capuchin  church.  "Well?"  he  muttered,  alert 
already. 

"Hurry,  mi  coronel!"  a  cracked  voice  blended  with  the 
knocking.  "Hurry,  you  are  wanted!" 

"Murgie!"  Driscoll  exclaimed,  flinging  wide  the  door. 
"Back  from  San  Luis,  and  prowling  round  here  as  usual,  eh? 
Well,  what's  the  matter?" 

"Quick,  senor!     Maximilian  is  sick.     Go,  go  to  him!" 

Partly  dressed,  bootless,  unarmed,  Driscoll  shoved  the  old 
man  aside,  and  sped  through  the  church,  hopping  over  half 
awakened  soldiers  as  he  went.  Once  in  the  street,  he  glanced 
up  at  the  tower  room,  which  was  Maximilian's,  and  thought 
it  odd  that  no  light  streamed  through  the  narrow  slits  there. 
The  sentinels,  too,  were  gone.  But  he  ran  up  the  steps  and 
darted  along  the  corridor,  only  to  strike  his  head  against  a 
heavy  wooden  door  that  was  ajar.  He  rushed  inside  the  cell, 
and  with  arms  outspread  quickly  covered  the  space  of  it,  in 
the  utter  dark  smashing  a  chair,  crashing  over  a  table,  cursing 
a  mishap  to  his  toe.  But  he  found  no  one. 

"This  here's  a  jail-break,"  he  mumbled  under  his  breath. 
"  Dam'  that  Murgie,  he's  roped  me  in  to  stop  'em! "  Whereat, 
all  unconsciously,  he  smiled  again  at  Fatality. 

Groping  his  way  back  to  the  corridor,  he  felt  rather  than  saw 
three  dim  figures  steal  past  the  door.  Silently,  swiftly,  he  gave 
pursuit..  He  heard  a  fervent  whisper  just  ahead. 

"Hasten,  dear  friends,  and  may  God — 

The  next  second  he  was  grappling  with  someone.  But  his 
unknown  captive  did  not  resist. 

"There,  senor,  loosen  your  fingers.  I  am  not  escaping.  I 
am  returning  to  my  cell.  But  I  had  to  make  the  other  two 
think  that  I  was  with  them." 

The  voice  was  Maximilian's. 


474  The  Missourian 

"Hark!    Ah,  poor  souls,  they  have  failed!" 

The  prince  spoke  truly.  A  fierce  "Alto  ahi ! "  sounded  below 
Then  there  were  musket  shots  and  the  confusion  of  many  scram- 
bling feet.  Murguia  had  routed  out  the  church  barracks. 
And  when  torches  were  brought,  the  soldiers  discovered  that 
they  had  hands  on  Miramon  and  Mejia.  But  the  false  sen- 
tinels were  gone!  In  leaving  the  road  clear  they  had  used  it 
themselves,  already. 

"You  fools!"  suddenly  a  half  crazed  wail  arose.  "Fools,  he. 
has  escaped!  He — 

"Oh  dry  up,  Murgie,"  said  Driscoll,  coming  down  the  steps, 
"He's  gone  back  to  his  room,  I  reckon." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  TITLE  OF  NOBILITY 

"  Hear,  therefore,  O  ye  kings,  and  understand." 
— Wisdom  of  Solomon. 

ONE  more  sunset,  one  more  sunrise!    And  then?     .     .     . 

Maximilian  again  confronted  the  ghostly  enumeration.  But 
this  time  his  last  day  should  be  the  day  of  a  man's  work,  in 
simple-hearted  humility.  He  no  more  searched  the  skies  to 
find  a  supernal  finger  there.  He  let  Destiny  alone,  and  did 
his  best  instead.  For  a  man's  best  is  Destiny's  peer. 

The  fiery  June  sun  was  dying  in  its  larger  shell  of  bronze 
over  the  western  sierras,  and  the  selfsame  blue  that  vaults 
beautiful  Tuscany  was  taking  on  its  richer,  darker  hue,  when  a 
foreigner  in  the  land,  Din  Driscoll,  walked  under  the  Alameda 
trees,  his  pipe  cold  in  his  mouth,  he  perplexed  before  his  heavy 
spirits.  For  he  no  longer  had  war  to  distract,  to  engross. 

Maximilian's  physician,  an  Austrian,  found  him  in  his 
reverie.  Would  the  Herr  Americano  at  once  repair  to  His 
Highness  attend?  The  senior's  presence  would  a  favor  be 
esteemed,  in  reason  that  a  witness  was  greatly  necessitated. 

Wondering  not  a  little,  Driscoll  hastened  back  into  the  town. 
As  the  physician  did  not  follow,  he  arrived  alone.  But  in  the 
door  of  the  archduke's  cell  he  stopped,  angry  and  embarrassed. 
For  his  eyes  encountered  a  second  pair,  which  were  no  less 
angry,  which  moreover,  were  Jacqueline's.  Maximilian  and 
Padre  Soria,  the  father  confessor,  were  also  there,  but  Driscoll 
at  first  saw  no  one  but  Jacqueline.  As  with  him,  she  had  been 
vaguely  summoned,  without  knowing  why.  A  last  testament 

475 


476  The  Missourian 

was  to  be  signed,  she  imagined,  but  in  his  choice  of  witnesses 
she  thought  that  Maximilian  might  at  least  have  shown  more 
delicacy.  As  to  cruelty  also,  she  would  not  confess,  but  cruelty 
it  was,  nevertheless.  To  see  again  this  American  was  to  know 
memory  quickened  into  torture,  and  days  afterward  there 
would  still  be  with  her,  vividly,  hatefully,  the  beloved  awkward- 
ness of  his  strong  frame,  the  splendid,  roguish  head,  now  so 
forbidding,  and  more  than  all,  the  way  he  smiled  of  late.  It 
was  a  smile  so  cold,  so  cheerless,  a  something  so  changed  in  him 
since  the  old,  piquant  days  of  their  first  acquaintance.  Despise 
herself  as  she  might,  Jacqueline  knew  how  the  sight  of  the 
man  halted  there  would  leave  her  whole  woman's  being  athirst 
and  panting. 

Maximilian's  thin  white  face  lighted  eagerly  when  he  per- 
ceived that  Driscoll  had  come.  The  haggard  despair  of  two 
days  before  had  given  way  to  a  serene  calm,  like  that  which 
soothes  a  dying  man  when  the  pain  is  no  longer  felt.  In  a 
gentleness  of  command  that  would  not  be  denied,  he  rose  and 
brought  the  American  into  the  room. 

"Colonel  Driscoll,"  he  began,  "you  know,  of  course,  that  a 

witness  is  the  world's  deputy.     He  is  named  to  learn  a  certain 

truth,  but  afterward  he  must  champion  that  truth,  even  against 

*    the  world.     So  you  find  yourself  here,  but  first  I  wish  to 

thank " 

" Please  don't  mention  it,"  Driscoll  interposed.  "I'm  willing 
to  do  anything  I  can." 

"Then  remember,"  said  Maximilian,  "that  you  are  a  wit- 
ness, and  a  witness  only.  Can  you  bear  that  in  mind,  senor, 
no  matter  what  you  may  hear  ? " 

Driscoll  nodded,  but  the  very  first  words  all  but  made  him  a 
violent  actor  as  well.  Maximilian  had  turned  to  Jacqueline. 
For  a  moment  he  paused,  then  with  a  grave  dignity  spoke. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "reverently,  prayerfully,  I  ask 
your  hand  in  marriage." 


The  Title  of  Nobility  477 

She  gasped,  and  so  sharp  and  quick  that  certainly  she 
was  the  most  dumbfounded  there.  Her  utter  stupefaction 
amazed  Driscoll  as  much  again  as  the  question  itself.  He 
stiffened  as  though  struck.  If  this  were  a  revelation?  If  it 
could  be — if  it  could  be  that  she  really  knew  no  reason  why 
she  should  marry  Maximilian? 

The  archduke  observed  them  both,  and  his  eyes  shone  with 
kindliness.  But  making  a  gesture  for  patience,  he  hurried  on. 
"Father  Soria  here,"  he  said,  "will  come  in  the  morning,  just 
before  the — the  execution,  to  perform  the  ceremony.  A  judge 
of  the  Republic  will  come  too,  for  the  civil  marriage.  As  to 
the  banns " 

"But  why — why,  par  bleu?" 

Jacqueline  stood  before  him,  stung  from  her  speechless 
trance  by  fury.  Behind  narrowed  lids  the  gray  eyes  hardened 
as  points  of  steel. 

"You  shall  know,  mademoiselle,"  he  answered  softly.  "It 
is  a  boon  I  ask  of  you,  the  greatest,  and  the  only  one  before  I 
go " 

"Why?    Tell  me  why!" 

"Because  it  is  the  boon  a  true  knight  may  crave.  It  is  to 
right  before  the  world  the  noblest  woman  a  knight  can  ever 
know " 

"Sire!" 

The  word  was  rage  and  supplication  both.  It  was  a  hurt 
cry,  piteous  to  hear.  Then  the  glint  dying  from  her  eyes 
blazed  to  tempestuous  life  in  those  of  the  Missourian.  But  the 
priest's  hand  touched  his  arm,  and  the  priest's  voice,  low  and 
gentle,  stayed  him. 

Maximilian,  though,  had  seen  the  outburst.  "Ah  yes, 
senor,  I  remember,"  he  said,  and  smiled,  "one  may  be  slapped 
upon  the  mouth,  yes,  yes,  for  even  breathing  my  lady's  name 
when  one  talks  of  rumor." 

Jacqueline   darted   at   them   a   puzzled  glance.     She  did 


478  The  Missourian 

not  understand  at  first.  Then  she  divined.  And  then,  wide 
and  gloriously,  her  eyes  opened  on  Driscoll,  her  defender. 
But  in  the  instant  they  sought  a  safer  quarter.  She  could  not, 
and  would  not,  forgive  him  for  being  there  at  all. 

"However,"  the  obdurate  prince  continued,  "our  witness 
must  bear  with  me  this  time,  for  I  will — will,  I  tell  each  of  you — 
speak  plainly.  The  false  scandal  does  exist.  Deny  it,  dear 
lady,  if  you  can. — Nay,  senor,  you  believe  it,  or  did.  So,  now, 
as  the  world's  deputy  here,  you  must  be  armed  to  foil  those 
venomous  tongues.  But  there  is  only  one  way.  You  shall 
tell  them  that  they  talk  of  Maximilian's  widow " 

"But " 

Jacqueline,  Driscoll,  both  spoke  at  once.  But  the  girl 
flashed  on  the  man  an  angry  command  for  silence. 

"Enough,  enough!"  she  cried,  "Let  me  speak,  then  end  it. 
Whatever  others  may  think,  Your  Highness  extends  me  his 
respect?  Bien,  but  that  gives  me  a  certain  right,  which  is  the 
right  to  consider  just  one  thing  in  answering  the  question  of 
Your  Highness — just  one  lone,  little  thing." 

"And  that?" 

"Is — is  whether  or  not  I  have  the  honor  to  love  Your  High- 
ness. Oh,  the  shame  in  such  sacrifice,  the  shame  you  put  on 
me!  You  should  have  known  my  answer  already." 

Her  answer  ?  Driscoll  stirred  uneasily.  What,  indeed,  was 
her  answer? 

"Yet  later,  mademoiselle,"  pursued  her  inflexible  suitor, 
"when  others  aspire  to  your  hand,  there  might  come  one  for 
whom  your  answer  would  be  favorable.  How  then,  if  this 
suitor,  when  pausing  to  hear  what  the  world  says  of  you " 

"He'd  choke  it  down  the  world's  throat!"  Driscoll  burst 
forth.  "He  alone  need  know  it's  a  lie." 

Jacqueline  started  as  she  heard  him  speak,  but  the  glad  and 
unintended  look  she  gave  him  changed  as  quick  as  thought  to 
haughty  resentment.  After  all,  he  was  still  there. 


The  Title  of  Nobility  ^9 

'  But  how  else,"  Maximilian  persisted,  "can  such  a  man  know 
so  much?" 

Then,  a  captive  absolute  to  his  lofty  idea,  the  poet  prince 
pleaded  for  it  as  one  inspired.  All  things  worked,  as  by  Heaven's 
own  will,  to  sanction  what  he  proposed.  There  was  Charlotte's 
death.  There  was  his  own.  Dying,  he  was  still  a  Mexican, 
and  might  wed  in  any  station  he  chose.  While  if  he  lived,  as  an 
archduke  of  Austria  he  could  not.  But  he  detes.ted  life.  With 
it  he  had  bettered  no  one.  Yet  by  his  death  he  hoped  to 
save  more  than  life  to  another.  This  other  was  the  girl  before 
him.  He  had  wrecked  her  dearest  ambition.  For  France's 
sake  she  would  have  lured  him  from  peril.  For  that,  and  that 
alone,  she  had  sacrificed  her  name.  Such  accounted  for  their 
interview  at  Cuernavaca.  Such  accounted  for  her  coming  to 
Queretaro.  Yet  through  his  own  blind  weakness  she  had 
failed.  France  had  lost  Mexico,  he  his  life,  and  she — her 
happiness.  But  the  last  could  yet  be  restored.  And  why  not 
purchase  it  with  his  death,  since  he  must  have  died  in  any 
case? 

"Must  have,"  Driscoll  interrupted,  "must  have  died  in  any 
case?" 

The  American  had  listened  perplexed,  now  with  a  quick, 
eager  start,  now  with  crinkled  brows.  First  of  all  the  old 
mystery  and  its  anguish  had  assailed  him.  The  hideous, 
gloomy  tangle  would  wound  him  round  again.  Did  Jacqueline 
care  for  this  prince  ?  Surely,  because  he  had  seen  the  evidence. 
But  why  had  she  intrigued  against  his  Empire,  why  had  she 
turned  Confederate  aid  from  him? 

Then,  as  the  ruined  monarch  spoke,  the  other  man  saw.  He 
saw  the  truth.  Truth  that  reconciled  all  contradictions.  That 
explained  what  even  the  theory  of  her  wanton  heart  had  only 
half  satisfied  before.  Explained  everything  by  that  heart 
of  purest  gold.  The  lover  knew  now  why  she  had  de- 
livered him  to  Lopez  and  the  Tiger>  two  years  ago,  though 


480  The  Missourian 

with  the  act  so  perversely  confessing  her  love  for  him.  He 
knew  why,  at  Boone's  Cordova  plantation,  she  had  tempted 
him  to  hold  her  for  his  own,  though  even  then  she  was  returning 
to  the  capital,  to  Maximilian.  No,  it  was  not  wanton  sport. 
It  was  not  contradiction.  But  it  was  conflict.  In  the  con- 
templation of  that  conflict  he  stood  unnerved.  It  was  the 
conflict  between  a  wild  yet  altogether  French  scheme  of  patriotic 
endeavor  and  her  own  good  woman's  love.  His  eyes  wandered 
to  her,  half  afraid,  and  the  chill  of  months  about  his  heart  was 
gone,  as  some  great  berg  of  ice  sinks  in  the  warmth  of  sunny 
waters.  From  siren  alluring  flesh  whose  touch  was  woe,  she 
was  become  a  sceptred  angel,  far,  far  away,  so  tantalizingly  far 
away! 

Thus  Driscoll  listened  on,  happy  in  his  soul  of  a  man,  yet 
abashed  as  a  boy.  But  listening,  at  the  last  he  was  perplexed 
anew,  though  for  another  reason. 

"Must  have  died,  sir  ? "  he  repeated  again.  "  But  that  wasn't 
what  you  thought  last  night.  No  sir,  last  night  you  thought 
you  could  escape.  But  just  the  same  you  turned  back.  You 
chose  to  die!" 

"His  Highness,"  spoke  the  gray-haired  priest,  "returned  for 
the  senorita's  answer." 

"My  answer?"  cried  Jacqueline.  "You  mean,  father,  for 
my  sake?" 

"Yes." 

Driscoll  started  violently,  perplexed  no  longer.  "By  God, 
sir,"  he  swore,  and  clapped  Maximilian  on  the  shoulder,  "but 
you  are  a  man!" 

The  prince  recoiled,  his  instincts  of  breeding  in  arms  against 
the  savage  equality.  But  then,  slowly,  a  smile  that  was  almost 
beatific  touched  his  lips,  and  without  knowing  it,  he  straightened 
proudly,  as  majesty  would. 

"A  man?"  he  murmured,  breathing  exaltation.  "Then  am 
I,  at  my  last  moment,  come  into  harmony  with  God's  own 


The  Title  of  Nobility  481 

ordering  of  the  universe.  For  he  made  man  on  the  sixth  day, 
not  a  Hapsburg.  Man,  and  after  His  Own  Image — Oh,  but 
that  is  the  title  the  hardest  of  all  to  win!  You — you  don't 
think,  senor,  that  you  would  like  to  take  it  back?" 

Driscoll  reddened  inexplicably.  Murgula's  ivory  cross  was 
still  in  his  pocket. 

"No!"  he  blurted  out  with  sudden  defiance.  "It's  the 
truth!" 

"Then,"  said  Maximilian  solemnly,  "on  your  word  I  stake 
my  faith.  To-morrow,  at  the  judgment-seat,  I  shall  hope  to 
hear  myself  called  so." 

"Your  Highness,"  questioned  Jacqueline  in  a  kind  of  daze, 
"Your  Highness  did  not  intend  to  escape  last  night?" 

"No,  he  did  not,"  Driscoll  answered  for  him.  "He  got 
Miramon  and  Mejia  started  all  right,  and  then,  without  knowing 
that  your  plot  had  failed,  he  turned  back  to  this  cell  here, 
alone." 

"Your  Highness,  you  did  that  for — for " 

Her  voice  broke,  and  she  stopped  abruptly  and  went  to  the 
narrow  window.  With  her  back  to  them,  she  groped  for  the 
dainty  bit  of  cambric  that  was  her  handkerchief. 

"  So  you  see,  my  daughter,"  said  the  priest,  drawing  near  her, 
"what  he  would  have  given,  what,  before  Heaven,  he  has  given, 
to  tell  you  what  you  so  hotly  resent.  Do  you  resent  it  now?" 

The  beautiful  head  shook  slowly.  She  was  touching  her 
eyes  with  her  handkerchief. 

"Then  you  will  not  let  his  sacrifice  be  in  vain?  You  will 
marry  him?" 

Impetuously  she  turned,  and  faced  them.  There  were 
blinding  drops,  clear  as  diamonds,  on  the  long  lashes.  "Oh 
Your  Highness,  Your — Oh,  there  is  something  you  can  tell 
me  that  is — that  is  inexpressibly  better?" 

"Let  me  know  what  it  is." 

"It  is  if — if  you  can  forgive  me. — Mon  Dieu,  why  did  you 


482  The  Missourian 

need  to  heap  this  terrible  sacrifice  on  me  ?  Why  could  you  not 
remember  that  I  tried  to  drive  you  from  your  empire?  That 
I  plotted  against  you?  That " 

"Hush,  you  would  have  saved  me." 

"  Oh,  only  incidentally,  and  you  knew  it.    Yet  you  must " 

"Don't!  There's  nothing  to  forgive. — But  wait,  we  will 
grant  that  there  really  is,  but  only  that  I  may  exact  my  price 
of  forgiveness." 

"The  price?    Name  it." 

"That  you  will  marry  me,  here,  to-morrow  morning,  before 
I  die." 

Jacqueline  raised  her  head.  "Has  Your  Highness,"  she 
demanded,  smiling  shyly  behind  her  tears,  "  has  he  forgotten 
the  woman's,  rather  my  consideration,  before  such  a  question  ?  " 

Driscoll  straightened,  squared  his  shoulders  to  take  a  blow. 
To  his  blindness  her  manner  looked  like  awakening  love  for 
the  other  man — and  for  the  man  himself,  not  for  the  prince! 
His  sense  of  loss,  his  agony,  were  extreme.  But  of  the  old 
bitterness  he  now  knew  nothing.  His  rival  was  putting  the 
question.  "And  according  to  that  consideration,  made- 
moiselle ?  " 

Driscoll  did  not  see  her  swift  glance  toward  himself.  He  was 
hurrying  out  lest  he  might  hear  her  answer.  And  she  let  him 
go — till  he  reached  the  door.  But  there,  like  one  frozen,  he 
halted  rigidly. 

"Helas,  I  do  not  love  you,  sire,"  Jacqueline  had  answered, 
very  quietly. 

Maximilian,  however,  did  not  seem  heart  broken. 

His  attention  was  all  for  the  mere  witness.  He  saw  the 
effect  on  that  witness.  In  Driscoll's  glad  face  he  read  his  own 
triumph,  his  own  purpose  achieved.  Jacqueline  was  righted 
at  last. 

"No,"  he  agreed,  "I  could  not  hope  for  so  much. — But 
another  might." 


The  Title  of  Nobility  483 

Then  apropos  of  nothing,  he  went  and  flung  his  arms  about 
Driscoll.  The  astounded  trooper  could  only  grip  his  hand, 
just  once,  without  a  word.  Then  he  was  gone. 

Maximilian  watched  him  go.  The  priest  turned  to  Jacque- 
line. She,  too,  stood  poised  so  long  as  his  spurs  rang  through 
the  corridor.  At  last  silence  fell  on  them.  For  a  moment  she 
hesitated.  Then,  trembling,  her  eyes  moist,  she  held  out  her 
hand.  "Good-bye,"  she  whispered.  But,  impulsively,  she 
raised  her  arm  and  touched  the  doomed  man's  forehead  lightly 
with  her  finger  tips,  making  a  blurred  sign  of  the  cross.  And, 
not  daring  an  instant  longer,  she  too  fled. 

Maximilian  was  alone  with  the  priest.  The  room  was 
growing  dark.  It  was  the  last  night. 

"Now,  father,  light  the  tapers,  there  on  the  altar.  Yes,  I 
am  ready.  Ready?  Blessed  Mother  in  Heaven,  it  is  more 
than  I  had  thought  to  be!" 


CHAPTER  XXII 
THE  ABBEY  OF  MOUNT  REGRET 

"O,  here 

Will  I  set  up  my  everlasting  rest, 
And  shake  the  yoke  of  inauspicious  stars 
From  this  world-wearied  flesh." 

0  — Romeo  and  Juliet. 

IT  is  curious  and  humiliating,  how  Nature  does  not  vex 
herself  in  the  least  for  the  dying  of  a  man.  And  yet,  to  the 
man,  the  event  is  so  very  important!  Each  breath  of  spaceless 
night,  each  twinkle  from  the  firmament,  though  but  the  phantom 
of  a  ray  quenched  ages  before,  everything,  he  teases  into  anxious 
commentary  on  his  own  puny  end.  There  could  not  be  more 
ado  if  the  Universe  were  in  the  throes,  writhing  against  a  re- 
conquering Chaos.  Harassed  creature,  what  ails  him  is  only 
the  pathetic  fallacy,  which  is  a  soothing  melody  and  stimulating 
to  mortal  pride.  But  the  lapses  into  healthier  realization  are 
very,  very  hard  to  bear. 

How  cold  it  was,  when  Maximilian  awoke!  The  chill 
seemed  creeping  nearer  his  heart,  nearer  the  citadel.  And 
how  black  the  night,  before  the  dawn!  But  where,  now,  were 
his  matches?  He  had  the  same  monotonous  trouble  of  any 
other  morning  in  getting  one  to  light.  Then  the  two  candles 
guttered  fitfully,  sordidly,  just  as  they  had  always  done. 
The  white  cloths  of  the  last  communion  seemed  a  ghostly 
intrusion  on  what  was  of  every  day.  Maximilian  drew  his 
cloak  about  him.  The  chill  was  simply  of  the  plateau,  of  the 
night,  not  the  portent  of  death.  The  world  without  was  dark 
and  desolate,  but  that  had  no  reference  to  the  tomb.  The 

484 


The  Abbey  of  Mount  Regret  485 

world  was  merely  taking  its  normal  sleep.  The  heavy  cloak 
ought  to  answer — but,  it  did  not. 

He  took  up  the  snuffers,  coaxing  the  yellow  flames  to  brighter 
promise,  then  set  the  candles  before  him  on  the  table.  A  piece 
of , dripping  tallow  fell  upon  his  hand,  and  the  hand  jerked  back. 
The  man  pondered.  So,  even  his  flesh  was  part  of  Nature  too, 
and  heeded  trivial  pain,  with  no  thought  of  the  bullets  to  drive 
through  it  shortly. 

He  wrote  two  or  three  letters  yet  remaining,  to  friends,  to  his 
brother,  the  Emperor  of  Austria.  He  penned  words  of  fare- 
well, yet  even  as  the  tears  welled  in  his  eyes,  he  needed  to  stop 
and  make  sure  that  he  had  indeed  not  more  than  three  hours 
yet  to  live.  It  was  difficult,  though,  with  the  candles  splutter- 
ing there,  in  the  ordinary,  every-day  fashion.  He  signed  the 
last  letter,  to  his  mother.  He  gazed  at  the  signature,  of  char- 
acters squarely  formed.  He  might  have  written  it  yesterday, 
or  the  year  before.  It  looked  the  same.  But  the  pen  he  had 
just  dropped  had  dropped  forever.  No,  no,  that  should  not 
be!  And  he  snatched  it  up  again,  and  wrote,  scribbled,  covered 
paper,  fearing  to  stop.  But  at  last  he  did  stop,  with  a  shivering 
laugh.  He  must  face  this  thing,  he  decided.  And  over  and 
over  again  he  told  himself,  "I  have  written  my  last.  Yes,  my 
last!"  and  steadfastly  resisted  the  taunting,  airy  quill  lying 
there.  So,  what  was  harder  than  farewell  to  loved  ones,  he 
nerved  himself  to  end  the  small  actions  of  his  daily  existence. 

Maximilian  had  his  life  long  been  a  dreamer,  ever  gazing 
wide-eyed  as  a  child  on  the  wonderful  fantasies  that  came, 
whether  entrancing  or  dreadful.  But  the  child's  fantasies  are 
kindred  with  man's  philosophies.  Often,  as  he  lay  awaiting 
sleep,  there  was  one  particular  thought  that  would  bring  him 
quickly,  stark,  staring  awake.  And  this  thought  was,  how 
certain  things  always  came  to  pass.  No  matter  how  far  away, 
nor  how  very  slow  their  approach,  making  vague  the  hope  or 
horror  of  them,  yet  the  actual,  present  hour  of  their  happening 


486  The  Missourian 

always  struck  at  last.  There  was  the  eve  of  the  day  when  he 
should  be  of  age.  Oh,  but  he  had  longed  for  that  day!  He 
had  longed  until  he  craftily  suspected  it  never  would  arrive. 
And  yet,  despite  those  leaden-footed  oxen,  the  minutes,  arrive  it 
did,  in  very  fact.  The  eve  of  that  day  was  a  happy  bed-time; 
but  over  his  ardent  reveries,  over  the  vista  of  future  achieve- 
ments, there  suddenly,  darkly  loomed  another  thought,  a  fore- 
token and  clammy  shroud,  which  smote  the  young  prince  with 
trembling.  For  would  not  the  day  of  his  death,  however  far 
away  also,  sometime  be  the  present,  passing  moment,  as 
surely,  just  as  surely,  as  this  anniversary  of  his  birth?  Here 
was  a  terrifying  glimpse  of  mortality. 

When,  not  fifteen  years  later,  Maximilian  opened  his  eyes  in 
the  black  Capuchin  cell,  and  comprehension  grew  on  him  of 
the  present  day's  meaning,  he  recalled  how  the  fantasy  of  a 
morning  of  death  had  first  come  to  him.  He  was  a  boy,  and 
he  was  to  go  on  a  voyage.  The  boy  had  awakened  when  there 
was  scarcely  light  as  yet,  and  heard  his  mother  at  the  door.  "It 
is  time,  dear."  She  spoke  low,  not  liking  to  break  his  slumber. 
But  in  the  silence  of  all  the  world  her  voice  was  clear,  and 
very  sweet,  and  the  words  stood  forth  against  his  memory  ever 
afterward.  He  was  to  be  gone  from  her  for  a  time,  and  this 
was  in  her  mind  as  she  called  him.  The  boy,  though,  could 
think  of  nothing  except  that  his  little  excursion  among  new 
and  strange  adventures  was  to  begin,  actually  to  begin.  But 
then,quite  unaccountably,  there  fell  over  his  eagerness  a  chilling 
gloom.  The  delightful  sprite  named  Expectation,  who  had 
whispered  so  piquantly  of  this  same  eventful  morn,  had  basely 
changed  herself  into  a  hideous  vampire,  and  she  muttered  at 
him,  in  frightful,  raucous  tones.  Yet  the  hag's  snarls  were 
true  promises.  There  was  to  come,  surely,  inexorably,  a 
certain  other  eventful  morn,  and  he  would  awake,  and  without 
his  mother's  calling  him,  he  would  know — know — that  it  was 
time! 


The  Abbey  of  Mount  Regret  487 

Back  in  that  childhood  hour  he  had  lain  for  a  while  quite 
inconsolable,  until  his  mother  came  again,  and  rested  her  hand 
on  his  head,  and  told  him — "Why,  one  would  think  the  little 
goose  was  going  away  forever!"  It  was  broad  daylight  by 
now,  too;  and  wholly  comforted,  he  had  sprung  up,  joyfully 
alive.  Eternity  did  not  worry  him  any  more  for  a  week. 

But  the  awakening  of  this  later  morning,  in  a  Mexican  prison! 
And  when  he  understood  that  the  old  familiar  fantasy  was 
become  a  fact!  When  he  remembered  how  once  he  had  been 
consoled  in  his  boyhood!  For  a  moment  the  sense  of  loss  and 
of  helplessness  was  stifling,  and  he  yearned — yearned  frantically, 
as  he  never  had  as  a  boy — for  the  touch  of  his  mother's  hand, 
for  her  voice,  so  low  and  sweet.  The  horrid  cruelty  he  could 
not,  during  that  moment,  bear.  He  felt  that  he  must  cry  out 
for  her,  like  a  very  child.  And  though  he  wept,  it  was  the  man, 
and  the  man's  despair  that  his  was  not  now  the  boy's  need  of 
comfort. 

But  when  they  came  in  the  first  dawn  and  knocked  at  his 
door,  they  found  him  serene,  untroubled,  and  only  the  wonted 
shade  of  melancholy  on  his  brow.  He  greeted  them  courteously, 
and  was  desirous  that  they  should  have  no  unnecessary  diffi- 
culties on  his  account.  Being  dressed  already,  punctiliously, 
and  in  black,  he  himself  went  to  call  Miramon  and  Mejia, 
and  brought  them  to  his  own  cell,  where  they  received  the  last 
sacrament  together. 

Later  the  three  condemned  were  at  breakfast — bread,  chicken, 
a  little  wine  and  a  cup  of  coffee — when  horses'  hoofs  rang 
abruptly  in  the  street  below,  and  as  abruptly  ceased  under 
their  window.  There  was  a  command,  and  sabres  rasped 
against  their  scabbards  to  gain  the  light.  Maximilian  raised 
eyes  filled  with  pity  to  his  two  companions.  Mejia,  an  Indian 
thoroughly,  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  The  handsome 
Miramon,  of  French  blood,  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Then 
both  glanced  timidly  in  their  turn  at  Maximilian,  and  each 


488  The  Missourian 

finding  a  hand  stretched  forth,  grasped  it  silently.  But  the 
priests  of  the  condemned,  who  were  waiting  apart,  felt  their 
blood  turn  to  icy  beads.  For  them  the  quick  metallic  gust  of 
strident  life  down  in  the  street  had  the  merciless  quality  of  ham- 
mering upon  a  coffin  lid. 

Troops  filed  up  the  stairs,  and  along  the  corridor.  They 
halted,  faced  the  door,  grounded  arms.  An  officer  stepped  out, 
fumbled  with  a  document,  and  read  the  death  sentence.  Maxi- 
milian gently  released  himself  from  one  and  another  of  those 
present,  and  turning  to  the  Austrian  physician,  handed  him  his 
wedding  ring.  "You  will  give  it  to  my  mother,"  he  said. 
Father  Soria's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  one  plump  fist  clenched 
pathetically.  Maximilian  passed  an  arm  over  the  good  man's 
shoulder,  and  with  him  walked  out  among  the  soldiers.  He 
nodded  to  them  encouragingly,  -and  so  started  on  his  little 
journey. 

Three  ramshackle  public  hacks,  set  high  over  wabbling 
wheels,  and  drawn  by  mules,  waited  at  the  door.  Maximilian 
smiled  an  apology  as  he  motioned  Father  Soria  to  precede  him 
into  the  first.  The  troops  used  their  spurs.  A  whip  cracked. 
The  springs  jolted.  Everywhere,  on  the  curbs,  in  windows,  on 
housetops,  there  were  people.  The  archduke  had  the  impres- 
sion of  breath  tensely  held,  and  of  eyes,  eyes  strained,  curious, 
and  awed,  like  those  of  children  who  witness  suffering  and  can- 
not understand. 

Passing  the  convent  of  Santa  Clara,  Maximilian  peered  up- 
ward at  the  windows;  and,  as  he  hoped,  he  saw  Jacqueline. 
She  was  leaning  far  out,  and  tremulously  poised.  Tender 
compassion  was  in  every  line  of  her  tense  body,  but  as  their 
gaze  met  she  tried  to  smile,  bravely  and  cheerfully,  and 
until  the  hack  swung  round  the  corner,  there  was  her  hand 
waving  him  farewell.  The  little  journey  might  have  been  a 
fete,  and  somehow,  he  was  comforted. 

"I  wonder,"  he  mused,  "if  I've  done  very  much  for  her, 


The  Abbey  of  Mount  Regret  489 

after  all.  Or  for  that  American,  named  Driscoll  ?  Will  she — " 
He  shook  his  head,  and  sighed.  "No,  she  is  not  the  lass  to  have 
him,  not  after  my  little  scene  of  last  night.  But,  the  choice 
does  rest  with  her,  now.  And  for  a  girl,  that  is  everything. — 
Alas,  poor  young  man!" 

His  rueful  phophecies  were  that  moment  interrupted  by  a 
woman's  scream.  It  rose  piercingly  over  the  clatter  of  their 
march.  Maximilian  put  out  his  head  and  looked  back.  The 
woman  was  running  beside  Mejia's  hack,  panting,  stumbling 
through  the  dust,  her  black  hair  streaming.  She  held  a  babe 
in  her  rebosa,  but  with  her  free  hand  she  clutched  weakly  at 
the  spokes.  To  the  clumsy,  pitying  soldiers  who  would 
force  her  away,  she  cried  again,  "Mercy  ...  Mercy 
.  .  .  Mercy  .  .  ."  A  low  murmuring  grew  on  every 
side.  Maximilian  flung  open  his  cab  door.  But  the  same 
instant  it  was  slammed  against  him.  He  sank  to  his  seat,  with 
a  stare  of  dumb  pain  in  his  eyes  that  the  priest  beside  him  never 
afterward  forgot.  The  woman  back  there  was  Mejia's  wife. 
And  Maximilian  had  had  one  glimpse  of  the  husband's  face. 
It  was  a  face  stretched  to  agony,  deadened  to  the  color  of  lead. 

"May  I,  may  I — pay  for  this!"  moaned  the  one-time  Em- 
peror. "  O  God,  grant  Thou  that  I  do  pay  for  this,  hereafter! " 

Beyond  the  last  hovels  of  the  suburbs,  at  the  foot  of  the  Cerro 
de  las  Campanas,  the  condemned  were  told  to  alight.  Here 
again  there  was  a  throng,  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  swarthy 
faces,  blank  in  awed  pity.  One  gaping  fellow  pointed  wonder- 
ingly. 

"Look,  there  they  are!    There — los  muertos!" 

Maximilian  overheard,  and  a  cold  shiver  crossed  his  spine. 
To  be  identified  already  as  "the  dead  one!" 

Then  he  beheld  his  coffin,  there,  the  longest  of  the  three  being 
borne  up  the  hill.  They  were  boxes  of  cheap  wood,  unpainted 
inside,  smeared  with  black  on  the  outside.  A  wavy  streak  of 
carmine  simulated  the  drooping  cord  and  golden  tassels  of 


49°  The  Missourian 

richer  caskets.     It  was  the  pomp  and  circumstance  that  per- 
tains to  the  humblest  peon  clay. 

Four  thousand  serried  bayonets  squared  the  base  of  the  hill, . 
and  made  a  compact,  bristling  hedge  to  hold  back  the  common 
people.  Through  it  marched  the  doomed  Imperialists,  each 
with  his  confessor  and  a  platoon  of  guards,  and  so  toiled  on  up 
the  slope.  The  archduke  looked  about  him.  There  were  many 
privileged  spectators  within  the  cordon,  but  nowhere  did  he 
see  a  former  friend.  All,  all,  had  kept  away,  and  in  his  heart 
he  knew  that  it  was  better  so.  He  could  not  ask  that  much 
of  them.  But  stay — yes,  a  remembered  figure  caught  his  at- 
tention; a  shriveled  decrepit  figure.  Here,  too,  mid  every 
color  Republican,  he  beheld  in  the  man's  garb  a  last  surviving 
uniform  of  the  vanished  Empire.  It  was,  however,  scarcely 
to  be  distinguished  as  such.  The  red  coat  was  threadbare,  and 
soiled  with  dust.  The  ragged  green  pantaloons,  held  by  a 
knotted  rope,  were  grotesquely  faded.  Yet  the  prince,  who 
had  once  gloried  in  dashing  regimentals  and  mistook  them  for 
power,  was  deeply  touched.  He  recognized  a  lone  unit  of 
what  had  been  none  other  than  the  Batallon  del  Emperador. 
He  paused,  to  have  a  word  with  the  miserable  derelict. 

"So,  you  would  be  near  me,  even  now?"  he  said.  "Ah, 
ever  faithful  little  old  man,  but  are  you  brave  enough  for  the 
horror  of  it?  Are  you?" 

Red  eyeballs  rolled  upward  in  their  sockets,  and  for  a 
space  met  the  archduke's  kindly  gaze.  Then  the  steady 
repellant  hate  in  them  seemed  disconcerted,  and  the  withered 
form  cowered  under  the  touch  of  the  pale  white  hand.  In- 
audible words  rattled  in  the  old  man's  throat,  and  he  trembled, 
as  though  to  turn  and  run.  Maximilian  regarded  him  benevo- 
lently, thinking  it  a  crisis  of  emotion. 

"There,  there,"  he  said,  "go  if  you  wish.  It's  not  well,  you 
see,  to  think  of  me  so  much.  But  you  must  not  imagine  that 
I  am  ungrateful.  When  you  believed  yourself  unseen,  cer- 


The  Abbey  of  Mount  Regret  491 

tainly  when  you  had  no  hope  of  reward,  throughout  my  mis- 
fortunes, you  have  always  hovered  near  me,  on  the  battlefield, 
and  more  lately  under  my  prison  window.  Yes,  yes,  I  have 
seen.  And  now,  and  now  I  thank  you."  The  bloodshot  eyes 
roved  the  ground,  but  did  not  lift  again.  "As  humble,  as  loyal 
as  a  dog,"  Maximilian  murmured  as  he  turned  away. 

They  indicated  to  him  that  he  should  take  his  place  before  a 
wall  of  adobe  blocks  which  had  been  piled  together  near  the 
crest  of  the  hill,  only  a  little  lower  than  those  very  fortifications 
built  by  the  Imperialists  themselves.  With  a  gesture  of  assent, 
he  complied.  The  priests  fell  sorrowfully  back  behind  the 
soldiers,  and  he  and  Miramon  and  Mejia  were  alone  together, 
three  tragic  isolated  figures  in  a  little  oblong  patch  of  bare 
rocky  hillside.  One  end  of  the  oblong  was  the  adobe  shield. 
The  other  three  sides  were  walls  of  living  men,  massed  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  with  bayonets  pointed  outward  against  the  jostling 
peering  crowd.  The  three  who  were  to  die  could  now  see  no 
human  being  beyond  the  dense,  double  row  of  soldiery  The 
remainder  of  earth  for  them  was  the  hollow  square,  bounded  by 
the  slouching  backs  clothed  in  blue,  by  the  white  flats  of  the 
kepis,  by  the  line  of  light  playing  over  the  thorns  of  steel. 
Beyond  was  the  early  morning  sun ;  above,  the  mystery  of  space. 

Through  the  gap  of  an  instant  the  shooting  squads  tramped 
in,  nearer  and  nearer,  until  they  halted  opposite  the  con- 
demned. Maximilian  then  perceived  which  squad  was  to  be  his 
own.  It  numbered  seven  tiradores  and  a  yellow,  beardless 
officer.  The  seven  were  low,  cumbersome,  tawny,  and  they 
shuffled  awkwardly.  Their  stripling  chief  thrust  out  his 
stomach,  and  he  handled  his  large  sword  with  an  unaccus- 
tomed flourish.  The  pompous  severity  was,  after  all,  only 
insolence.  He  had  need  to  keep  guard  on  his  importance;  he 
did  not  wish  to  hear  the  pounding  of  his  heart.  Yet  his, 
muscles  twitched  unbecomingly,  which  jerked  his  mouth,  and 
sometimes  his  head. 


492  The  Missourian 

Maximilian  stepped  forward  and  addressed  them.  To  each 
he  gave  a  gold  piece  bearing  his  effigy.  It  was  his  last  expen- 
diture in  that  coin.  He  requested  them  earnestly,  gently, 
to  aim  at  his  body,  not  at  his  head.  He  was  thinking  of  his 
mother.  He  would  not  have  her  see  him  with  mangled 
features.  Then  with  a  final  reassuring  word,  he  turned  back 
to  the  wall. 

They  were  going  to  place  him  between  the  other  two,  but  with 
a  smile  and  shake  of  the  head,  he  would  not  have  it  so.  His 
last  act  was  for  precedence.  Affectionately  he  drew  Miramon 
to  the  place  of  honor,  so  that  Mejia  was  on  the  right,  and  him- 
self on  the  left. 

Then  the  fiscal  of  the  Republic  appeared,  and  read  the  mili- 
tary law.  For  any  who  should  ask  the  lives  of  the  condemned, 
death  was  prescribed.  But  if  there  was  anything  the  con- 
demned themselves  wished  to  say  .  .  . 

Maximilian  removed  his  hat.  "Mexicans,"  he  said,  "may 
my  blood  be  the  last  to  be  spilled  for  this  country's  welfare. 
Long  live  Independence!  Long  live  Mexico!" 

He  spoke  the  words  calmly,  gravely,  and  having  concluded, 
he  carefully  adjusted  a  large  handkerchief,  so  that  his  beard 
might  not  be  burned  by  the  powder.  Then  he  crossed  his 
arms  on  his  breast,  and  gazed  steadily  into  the  barrels  of 
the  leveled  muskets,  waiting. 

A  wave  of  motion,  of  tendons  stiffening,  passed  along  the 
thick  wall  of  flesh.  Against  it  the  tide  without  swelled  higher, 
stronger.  Tension  strained  upward  to  the  supreme  crash. 
The  quiet  of  a  multitude  is  pain. 

But  the  other  two  Imperialists  had  not  spoken  yet.  Mejia 
shook  his  head  passionately.  He  saw  only  his  young  wife  with 
her  babe,  panting,  stumbling  through  the  dust.  He  held  a 
crucifix,  and  would  not  take  it  from  his  lips.  Miramon,  how- 
ever, raised  his  voice  to  protest  against  the  charge  of  treason. 
Of  that  crime  he  died  innocent.  But  he  pardoned,  as  he  hoped 


The  Abbey  of  Mount  Regret  493 

for  pardon.     Then  he  cried,  "Long  live  Mexico!    Long  live 

the  Emperor!" 

Maximilian  started.  These  were  the  words  that  he  thought 
he  should  like  to  hear.  But  now  they  grated.  They  recalled 
the  mistake  he  had  lived,  the  anachronism  of  his  life.  They 
were  scorpions.  They  stung  like  the  needle  in  an  ulcer.  He 
turned  sharply,  in  tearful  reproach.  But  a  sword  flashed,  the 
volley  came,  and  the  three  men  fell,  as  under  a  crushing  rock, 
one  against  the  wall;  his  head  broken  over  upon  his  breast. 
The  pert  young  officer  pointed  his  blade  at  three  convulsive 
bodies,  and  through  each  a  last  bullet  sped,  burying  itself  in 
the  earth  beneath.  The  crowd  pressed,  surged,  stood  on 
tiptoe. 

There  was  one  other  among  the  spectators,  but  keeping 
himself  hidden,  whom  Maximilian  would  have  been  concerned 
to  see  there.  He  was  Driscoll.  He  came  to  watch  the  shriveled 
derelict,  Murguia.  He  came  to  stand  guard  over  a  soul, 
Maximilian's.  What  peace  that  soul  had  found  should  not 
be  destroyed.  And  so  he  screened  himself  in  the  crowd,  holding 
ready  to  crush  a  viper  whose  fangs  were  heavy  with  poison. 
When  Maximilian  paused  and  spoke  to  the  old  man,  Driscoll 
was  very  near,  near  enough  to  hear,  and  to  strike.  But  the  old 
man  had  only  wheezed  and  mumbled.  Though  why  that  old 
man  did  not  utter  a  first  word,  though  why  he  could  not,  will 
never  be  explained.  But  this  much  is  true,  that  the  ambushed 
soul,  moving  so  calmly  toward  eternity,  then  stepping  so  near 
the  coiled  serpent,  was  yet  its  own  guardian,  unwittingly. 

Until  the  very  end  Driscoll  staid  there  alert.  The  old  man, 
baffled,  insatiate,  might  yet  cry  out  what  he  knew.  DriscolPs 
gaze  never  relaxed.  He  felt  as  though  he  watched  a  murderer 
while  the  murder  was  being  done.  But  the  old  man  only 
listened.  Unable  to  see  within  the  hollow  square,  he  listened, 
and  waited.  His  lower  jaw  hung  open,  and  over  his  lip  a  white 


494  The  Missourian 

froth  grew  and  grew,  until  it  broke  and  trickled  down  his  chin. 
The  red  eyeballs  gleamed  ravenously,  as  still  he  waited. 

"When  this  is  over,"  Driscoll  said  to  himself,  "he'll  plump 
down  in  a  fit  and  blow  out.  Else  he'll  go  raving  crazy.  Lord, 
that  look!" 

When  it  was  over,  Driscoll  went  to  him.  He  had  but  to 
reach  forth  a  hand  and  fasten  on  his  shoulder.  He  held  him 
against  a  scurrying  of  spectators,  whom  the  tragedy's  close 
had  that  instant  brought  to  life. 

"Here,  Murgie,  here's  something  that  belongs  to  you,"  he 
said.  "Well,  what's  the  matter?  Take  it,  I  don't  want  it." 

The  old  man  looked  up.  An  ivory  cross  was  dangling  from 
the  other's  fingers.  The  cross  still  showed  bloodstains;  no 
later  flowing  of  blood  had  washed  them  away.  But  the  father 
of  Maria  de  la  Luz  stared,  stared  vacantly  at  the  trinket.  The 
masterful,  consuming  rage  of  two  years  past  was  gone  out  of 
his  eyes.  Instead  they  were  watery  and  senile.  The  brows, 
and  even  the  lashes,  had  turned  as  white  as  the  thin  strands  of 
hair,  and  contrasted  gruesomely  against  the  yellow,  mottled 
skin,  which  stretched  like  clouded  parchment  over  the  bony 
death's  head.  At  last  the  old  man  put  out  his  hand  and  took 
the  cross,  not  comprehending. 

" No,  I  didn't  give  it  to  him,"  Driscoll  explained  bluntly.  "I 
told  you  I  wouldn't." 

Yet  no  spasm  of  chagrin  distorted  the  weazen  face. 

"This  chain  here,  it's — it's  gold/"  the  old  man  cried. 

Then  he  sputtered,  choked.  What  had  he  betrayed  ?  Would 
the  strange  donor  reclaim  the  gift,  knowing  it  was  gold?  He 
leered  craftily  at  Driscoll,  and  with  a  hungry,  gloating  secrecy 
— his  old  slimy  way  of  handling  money — he  smuggled  the  holy 
symbol  under  his  jacket.  But  from  cunning  the  leer  changed 
to  suspicion  and  quick  alarm.  He  delved  into  his  pockets, 
one  after  another.  He  searched  greedily,  wildly,  until  the  last 
coin  on  him  lay  in  his  palm.  Quaking  in  every  feeble  bone, 


The  Abbey  of  Mount  Regret  495 

he  counted  his  poor  wealth  again  and  again..  There  was  very 
little  left.  He  glared  at  Driscoll.  He  glared  at  townsmen, 
officers,  blanketed  Inditos,  all  swarming  past  to  gaze  on  the 
three  corpses.  He  cried  "Thief!"  first  at  one  unheeding 
passer-by,  then  at  another. 

"I  had  more  than  this!"  he  whined.  "More — more  than 
this!  There  was  my  hacienda,  my  peons,  my  cotton,  my  mills, 
my  canvas  bags.  There  was  my  blockade  runner.  She  was 
Clyde-built,  she  was  named  La  Luz,  she  cost  twenty  thousand 
English  gold  pieces.  Who  has  taken  these  things  from  me? 
Who — where Curse  you,  do  you  know?" 

Dissipating  his  hoards,  sacrificing  his  last  chattel,  all  that 
was  now  a  blank.  But  his  hoards,  his  chattels,  were  all  that 
were  now  worth  while,  and  the  miser  clamored  for  them,  and 
them  only.  Vengeance,  however,  is  an  ironical  bargainer. 
Vengeance  kept  her  pay,  and  "abhorred  Styx,  the  flood  of 
deadly  hate,"  had  dried  and  left  a  stranded  soul,  parched  by 
avarice.  Driscoll  was  moved  by  a  pity  half  ashamed. 

"Look  here,  Murgie,"  he  threatened  terribly,  "Do  you  say 

/stole  your —  -  By  the  Great  Horn  Spoon,  I'll "  He  flung 

his  hand  to  his  revolver. 

The  counter-irritant  had  instant  effect.  All  moisture  died 
out  of  the  rat  eyes,  leaving  them  two  little  horrible  beads.  The 
miser  shrank,  groveled,  in  mortal  terror  of  some  physical  hurt. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  CONTRARINESS  or  JACQUELINE 

"Much  adoe  there  was,  God  wot; 
He  wold  love,  and  che  wold  not." 

— Ballad  of  Phillida  and  Corydon. 

MAXIMILIANO  I.  of  Mexico  was  dead.  "His  dynasty  and  his 
Empire  were  the  frippery  of  a  past  time.  Yet  there  was  his 
capital,  still  holding  out  against  the  Republic.  Leonardo 
Marquez,  the  Leopard,  spitefully  refused  to  capitulate.  But 
why  he  would  not,  no  one  knew,  neither  the  starving  City,  nor 
the  patient  besieger  outside.  No  one,  unless  it  was  Jacqueline. 
The  very  day  of  the  triple  execution  she  called  on  Escobedo, 
commander  in  chief  at  Querdtaro.  She  desired  to  return  to 
the  capital,  and  she  wanted  a  pass  through  the  Republic's  lines 
there.  She  mentioned,  in  case  it  were  any  inducement,  that 
the  place  would  fall  within  twenty-four  hours  after  her  arrival. 
Jacqueline  had  difficulty  to  speak  at  all.  She  could  not  endure 
the  general's  monstrous  flaps  of  ears,  his  rabbinical  beard,  his 
cruel  black  eyes. 

"Maria  purisima,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  cannot  mean, 
senorita,  that  you,  all  alone,  will  deliver  the  City  of  Mexico  into 
our  hands?" 

"It  will  certainly  be  an  incident  of  my  stay  there,"  she  replied. 

The  hard,  Jewish  features  lighted  cunningly.  "Then,  por 
Dios,  you  are  as  wonderful  as  I've  always  heard!  But  may — 
may  one  be  allowed  a  little  curiosity?" 

"I  might  say,"  and  Jacqueline  forthwith  said  it,  "that  I  have 
just  had  a  cipher  telegram  from  Louis  Napoleon." 

496 


The  Contrariness  of  Jacqueline  497 

"Which,"  breathlessly  demanded  the  other,  "will  interest 
Marquez,  eh  ?  Will  disappoint  him  ?  Will  cause  him  to  sur- 
render ?  " 

"Your  Excellency  is  of  course  entitled  to  his  own  con- 
jectures." 

But  the  commander-in-chief  was  satisfied.  "We  must 
hasten  your  going  by  every  means,"  he  declared.  "You  shall 
have  an  escort.  You " 

"Then  I  choose  the  Gray  Troop — because,"  she  added  care- 
fully, "they're  the  best." 

Now,  why,  by  all  that's  feminine,  was  she  surprised  next 
morning  when  the  Gray  Troop  gathered  round  her  coach,  as 
though  that  were  a  coincidence  ?  At  least  she  arched  her  brows, 
and  lifted  one  shoulder  petulantly,  and  unmistakably  showed 
that  she  expected  a  tedious  time  of  it.  The  sun-burned  colonel 
of  the  Grays  beamed  so  with  happiness  too,  as  he  drew  rein  to 
report  to  her.  They  met  for  the  first  time  since  Maximilian's 
embarrassing  little  scene  for  their  express  benefit.  Driscoll 
noted  her  disdain,  and  it  is  likely  that  he  only  grinned.  He 
did  that  because  he  knew  how  helpless  he  was,  and  how 
merciless  she  could  be.  For  she  was  not  only  beautiful,  she 
was  pretty — a  demure,  sweet,  and  very  pretty  girl.  Some 
vague  instinct  of  self-defense  guided  him.  His  broad  smile 
was  exasperating  in  the  last  degree,  and  it  was  not  she,  but  the 
other  young  woman  in  the  coach,  whom  he  addressed. 

"I  got  some  side  saddles,  Miss  Burt,"  he  announced,  "and 
a  few  extra  mustangs,  whenever  anybody  gets  tired  of  traveling 
behind  curtains."  Curiously  enough,  both  girls  wore  riding 
habits.  "Oh,  by  the  way,"  he  inquired  suddenly,  "how's 
Miss  Jack'leen  this  morning  ?  Is  she  well  and — docile  ?  " 

Jacqueline's  chin  dropped  in  astonishment.  She  seized 
the  old  canvas  window  flap  and  jerked  it  down.  But  at  once 
she  raised  it  again,  and  thoughtfully  contemplated  the  trooper. 

"I  wonder,"  she  mused  aloud,  in  that  quaint  accenting  of 


498  The  Missourian 

the  English  which  cannot  be  described,  "when  is  it  that  you 
are  going  to  grow  up,  ever?" 

"I  did  start  to,"  Driscoll  informed  her  soberly,  "but  it  got 
tiresome  as  all  creation,  and  I  reckon  I've  backslided  just 
since — "  A  world  of  earnestness  came  into  his  lowered 
voice.  " — well,  just  since  we  had  that  talk  with  poor  Maxi- 
milian." 

The  old  canvas  curtain  fell  for  good  then,  and  very  abruptly. 

A  moment  later,  however,  she  was  avenging  her  flushed 
cheeks  on  Mr.  Daniel  Boone,  who  rode  at  the  other  side,  also 
sunburned,  also  effulgent  with  happiness. 

"If  it  isn't  the  animal  dispulans!"  she  exclaimed.  "Look 
Berthe,  and  rejoice;  our  sighing  Monsieur  le  Troubadour!" 

Driscoll  hovered  near  a  moment,  then  reluctantly  rode  ahead 
of  his  battered  dusty  warriors.  So  he  and  the  wilful  maid  from 
France  began  a  second  journey  together,  yet  far,  far  apart. 
But  only  after  many  torturing  hours  did  his  first  joy  consent  to 
nerceive  the  distance  between  them. 

Now  and  then,  though  rarely,  and  never  when  he  hoped  for 
such  a  thing,  she  would  ride  with  him.  And  then  he  usually 
stirred  up  hostilities  before  he  knew  it,  and  notwithstanding 
all  that  was  tender  and  humble  which  he  meant  to  tell  her. 
There  was,  however,  cause  enough  for  savagery.  She  made 
him  the  least  of  the  troop,  though  he  arranged  each  detail  of 
speed  and  comfort,  laid  out  tempting  noon-day  spreads,  im- 
provised cheer  in  the  cheerless  hostelries,  and  all  with  a  fore- 
thought showing  pathetically  how  his  every  thought  was  of 
her.  But  if  she  divined  the  inwardness  of  this,  which  of 
course  she  did,  outwardly  she  contrived  to  be  oblivious. 
She  thanked  him  sincerely  and  simply,  the  while  that  he  craved 
repayment,  as  the  heart  repays.  He  yearned  for  only  a  chance 
to  speak  his  mindj  and  to  force  hers.  But  now  craftily  she 
would  bring  the  others  flocking  round,  to  decide  for  her  if  they 
did  not  think  monsieur  absurdly  mistaken  in  this  or  that! 


The  Contrariness  of  Jacqueline  499 

The  same  instant  she  would  conjure  up  the  most  trivial  of 
arguments,  and  be  vastly  shocked  over  the  ridiculous  conten- 
tions which  she  herself  assigned  to  Driscoll. 

She  grew  honestly  fond  of  the  other  Missouri  colonels,  with 
their  ranger  uniforms,  and  brawn  scarred  by  weather  and  bat- 
tle, and  they  and  the  marchioness  became  great  friends.  She 
was  a  dainty  flower  among  them,  but  they  were  prime  com- 
rades, and  she,  the  mad-cap  tomboy  her  life  long,  took  to  them 
in  the  impulse  that  here  were  her  own  kind.  Driscoll  was 
proud  to  see  it,  without  need  of  being  generous.  She  gathered 
Berthe,  as  a  soberer  sister,  into  the  merry  communion,  and  she 
rode  with  Clay  of  Carroll,  with  Carroll  of  Clay,  with  Reub 
Marmaduke,  with  Crittenden,  with  cherubic  Old  Brothers  and 
Sisters,  with  Hanks  the  bugler,  and  she  mocked  Meagre 
Shanks,  that  disputatious  animal,  because  he  tried  to  mon- 
opolize Berthe  and  would  not  dispute  at  all.  She  asked  them 
questions.  She  asked  Harry  Collins  if  his  tribe  were  the  same 
as  that  of  ces  Missouriens-la,  and  the  Kansan  confessed  that 
the  two  tribes  had  been  a  bit  hostile  of  late,  but  what  with 
raiding,  razing,  and  murdering,  he  guessed  they'd  laid  the 
foundation  for  a  mutual  self-respect,  as  behooved  valiant  red- 
skins. So  she  often  got  strange  answers  for  her  inquisitiveness, 
but  she  had  grown  wary  among  Westerners,  and  she  usually 
paid  them  back.  They  were  a  happy  party.  But  Driscoll 
wanted  a  more  definite  focusing  of  the  joy.  And  at  times,  in- 
deed, yielding  to  temptation  herself,  she  permitted  him  to 
lose  his  heart  deliciously  over  again.  Shadows  were  lifted 
now,  and  she  was  just  a  lovable  girl,  just  sweet  Jacqueline. 
And  he  loved  her  with  the  boy's  young  strength  of  adoration 
and  diffident  awe.  Precisely  in  which  state  she  made  him 
suffer  exquisitely.  No  one  could  be  more  contrary  and 
capricious  than  the  lovable  girl  of  a  moment  before.  Whereat 
storms  brewed  within  him. 

There  was  one  of  the  rare  times  when  the  Missourian  and 


500  The   Missourian 

the  maid  rode  up  and  down  the  winding  white  ribbon  of  a 
Mexican  highway,  and  for  awhile  both  were  quiet.  This  once 
they  dared  the  risk — she  did,  rather — which  lurks  in  the  silence 
that  requires  no  words.  For  him  it  brought  the  old  time,  and 
the  rides  of  that  time,  when  he  wondered  what  was  the  matter 
with  him,  and  she  knew  all  along.  And  he  thought  how 
during  the  hard  winter  in  the  Michoacan  mountains  and 
swamps,  he  had  caught  himself  almost  crying  aloud,  that  he 
wanted  her,  that  he  wanted  her — wanted  again  the  subtle  com- 
radeship of  those  silences  which  require  no  words.  And  here, 
at  last,  here  she  was,  riding  beside  him! 

He  looked  at  her  furtively.  She  was  in  profile.  He  looked 
again,  to  be  sure  that  it  was  not  memory,  but  the  breathing 
girl  herself.  Yes,  for  a  fact,  it  was  the  girl  herself.  And  here 
was  her  own  queenly  head,  here  its  regal  poise,  here  the  superb 
line  of  the  neck  to  the  shoulder.  Reverence  grew  on  admiration, 
for  as  he  gazed  he  beheld  her  character  revealed,  of  lines  as 
stately,  as  womanly,  and  withal  as  flexible,  too,  before  the 
cheery  glow  of  each  moment's  life.  He  stirred,  and  was 
vaguely  restive,  and  perhaps  a  little  frightened  also,  because 
of  the  deep  mystery  of  something  within  himself  which  he 
could  not  understand.  The  classic  outline  of  her  features 
was  softened  now  in  the  warmth  of  flesh.  Her  vivacity  was 
off  guard,  in  the  forgetfulness  of  reverie.  The  pure  white 
of  the  little  tip  of  ear  was  tinged  with  pink.  Her  eyes  were 
lowered  to  the  saddle  horn.  They  were  melting.  They  were 
almost  blue. 

"Jack'leenl"  He  burst  out  fervently,  before  he  thought, 
with  an  arm  half  lifted  toward  her. 

The  drooping  lashes  raised.  The  eyes  were  gray  again. 
She  regarded  him  for  awhile  without  speaking. 

"Why  don't  you  quarrel?"  she  asked  finally. 

The  spell  was  broken.  Her  pounding  heart  had  vent  in  a 
nervous  laugh  of  raillery.  She  touched  her  horse  with  the 


The  Contrariness  of  Jacqueline  501 

riding  crop  in  her  gauntleted  hand.  Somehow  she  would 
not  leave  that  dumb  brute,  the  horse,  in  peace.  Driscoll's 
old  Demijohn,  however,  was  used  to  the  game  by  now. 
He  pointed  his  ears,  and  checkmated  that  last  move  by 
bringing  his  master  dnce  more  to  the  lady's  side. 

"You  used  to,"  she  went  on,  as  though  there  had  been  no 
interruption,  "nicely.  You  were  of  an  interest  then.  In 
fact,  I  reck-o» — I  know  no  one  that  I  had  rather  have  quarreled 
with." 

But  still  he  would  not,  though  that  "reckon"  from  her  lips 
was  most  alluring.  She  stole  a  mischievous  glance  at  his 
face,  but  the  fixed  look  there  made  her  lift  her  hand  toward 
him.  Perhaps,  if  he  had  seen  and  had  spoken  then — But 
he  did  see. 

"Eh  bien,  since  monsieur  won't  fight,  won't,  won't"  she 
cried,  "then  it's  more  fun  to " 

Evidently  to  seek  livelier  company.  For  she  wheeled  the 
mustang,  swerved  from  a  grasp  at  her  bridle,  and  went  gal- 
loping back  to  the  coach.  He  twisted  in  his  saddle,  pushed  his 
sombrero  higher  on  his  head,  and  dubiously  watched  her 
flying  from  him,  a  lithe,  trim  figure  in  snug  Hungarian  jacket, 
the  burnished  tendrils  fluttering  on  the  nape  of  her  neck,  the 
soft  white  veil  trailing  like  a  fleecy  cloud  from  her  black 
amazona  hat.  He  bent  a  perplexed  gaze  to  the  road.  "It's 
'way,  'way  beyond  me,"  he  told  himself.  Then  he  grew 
aware  of  a  sense  of  warmth  on  his  forearm.  Yes,  he  remem- 
bered. For  an  instant  she  had  laid  a  hand  on  his  sleeve,  and 
he  had  thrilled  to  the  ineffable  token  of  nestling.  He  was 
never  immune  from  her  tantalizing  contradictions.  He  felt 
this  one  yet. 

Hoofs  pounded  behind,  and  Mr.  Boone  drew  up  alongside. 
"She  came  back,  and  made  me  get  away  from  the  coach,"  he 
announced.  "Prob'bly  she  wanted  to  cry  some;  she  looked 
it." 


502  The  Mi«sourian 

Yet  another  of  her  contradictions! 

"Then  why  in  the  nation,"  Driscoll  demanded,  "do  you 
keep  hanging  round  that  coach  for?  Look  here  Shanks, 
you  make  me  plum'  weary.  The  idea  of  you  falling  in " 

"No  more'n  you,  you  innocent  gamboling  lamb  of  an  ol' 
blatherskite."  But  Daniel's  steel  blue  eyes  had  softened  to 
their  gentlest.  "Say  Jack,"  he  added,  "she's  going  back  to 
Paris." 

' '  Don't  I  know  it  ?    Lord  A'mighty ! ' ' 

"Go  on,  never  mind  me,"  said  Mr.  Boone.  "Groan  out 
loud,  if  you  want  to.  For  she  sho'ly  is,  yes,  back  to  Paris. 
Now  Buh'the" — The  Troubadour's  r's  always  liquefied  dream- 
ily with  that  name — "Buh'the  has  been  telling  me  a  few 
things,  and  I'm  sure  reporter  enough  to  scout  out  the  rest  of 
the  story,  and  it's  just  this — Jack,  she's  fair  broken-hearted." 

"MissBurt?" 

"No,  no,  the  marchioness.  She  staked  out  a  campaign  over 
here,  and  it's  panned  out  all  wrong,  and  it  wasn't  her  fault 
either.  Poor  girl,  no  wonder  she  might  like  to  cry  a  little. 
She's  lavished  everything  she  had  on  it  too,  ancestral  chateau, 
and  all  that." 

"But,"  said  Driscoll  quickly  "she'll  not  suffer.  There's 
her  title " 

"Title?"  exclaimed  Daniel.  "W'y,  she's  going  to  give 
that  up  too,  not  having  any  chateau  any  more,  and  she'll  trip 
blithely  down  among  the  people  again,  where  she  says  it's 
more  comfortable  anyhow.  Title?  Well,  you've  suhtinly 
noticed  that  she  always  did  take  that  humorously.  Her 
grandfather — Buh'the  says — was  right  considerable  of  a 
jurist,  used  scissors  and  paste,  and  helped  make  a  scrap-book 
called  the  Napoleonic  code,  and  Nap  the  First  changed  him 
into  a  picayunish  duke.  But  wasn't  the  nobility  of  intellect 
there  already?  Sho'ly!  Miss  Jacqueline,  though,  likes  the 
father  of  her  grandfather  the  best.  He  never  was  noble, 


The  Contrariness  of  Jacqueline  503 

technically  I  mean.  His  was  the  nobility  of  heart,  and  he'd 
have  scorned  to  be  tagged.  He  just  baked  bread,  and  fed 
most  half  of  Saint  Antoine  for  nothing  at  times,  while  the 
Dauphin  at  Versailles  was  throwing  cakes  to  the  swans.  How- 
soever," Mr.  Boone  added  hastily,  as  sop  to  his  softness  for 
princes,  "I  reckon  that  there  Dauphin  was  noble  too.  Both 
of  'em  fed  the  hungry  mouths  that  were  nearest." 

"But,"  demanded  Driscoll,  ''doesn't  her  title  carry  some 
sort  of  a — a  compensation?" 

"Not  a  red  sou.  The  majorat — that's  the  male  line — died 
out  with  her  father,  which  means  that  the  annuity  died  out  too." 

"W'y,  Great  Scot,  she's " 

"She's  tired  and  disheartened,  that's  what  she  is,  and  she's 
going  back  to  Paris,  and  you — "  Boone  paused,  and  glared 
at  his  companion,  " — and  you  mean  to  let  her!" 

Old  Demijohn  felt  a  spur  kicked  against  his  flank,  and  he 
lifted  his  fore  feet  and  sped  as  the  wind.  It  was  fully  an  hour 
later  when  Meagre  Shanks  caught  up  with  horse  and  rider 
again.  Rather,  he  met  them  coming  back.  His  conversation 
was  guileless,  at  first. 

"Do  you  know,  Din,"  he  began,  "those  two  girls  are  only 
half  educated?  Yes  sir,  gastronomically,  they  are  positively 
illiterate,  and  it's  a  shame!  W'y,  they  don't  know  hot  biscuits 
and  molasses.  They  don't  know  buttermilk.  They  don't 
know  yams.  Nor  paw-paws,  nor  persimmons.  They  don't 
even  know  watermelon.  Now  isn't  France  a  backward 
place?" 

" Don't,  Shanks! "  Driscoll  begged.  "You'll  have  me  head- 
ing for  Missouri  in  a  minute.  You  didn't,  uh,  mention  peach 
cobbler?" 

"And  peach  cobbler,  big  as  an  acre  covered  with  snow. 
And  just  think,  it's  roastin'  ea'ah  time  up  there  now,  now!" 
How  Daniel's  voice  did  mellow  under  a  tender  sentiment! 
"And  to  think,"  he  went  on,  "of  the  marchioness  living  on  in 


5°4  The  Missourian 

such  ignorance!  It's  a  thing  that's  just  got  to  be  remedied, 
Jack." 

"Then  suppose  you  take  her  to  Missouri,"  growled  his  friend, 
"and  let  me  alone." 

"/  take  her?  Oh  come  now,  Din,  I  see  I've  got  to  tell 
you  something  which  is — "  The  Troubadour's  accents  grew 
low  and  fond,  and  the  other  man  respected  them,  with  some- 
thing between  a  smile  and  a  sigh  for  his  own  case.  "Which 
is — well,  nobody's  noticed  it,  but  the  fact  is  that  Buh'the, 
that  Miss  Buh'the " 

"Dan,"  interrupted  Driscoll  severely,  "you're  not  going  to 
tell  me  any  secret.  You  mean  that  you  weren't  mistaken 
when  you  mistook  her  for  a  queen." 

"That— that's  it!"  ejaculated  Daniel.  "Of  coh'se,"  he 
added  soothingly,  "the  other  one  is  a — a  mighty  nice  girl, 
but " 

"Oh,  is  she?  But  Miss  Burt  is  the  one  you  want  to  take  to 
Missouri  ?  Well  Dan,  why  don't  you  ?  " 

"Because,"  was  the  doleful  reply,  "those  two  are  just  like 
orphan  sisters  together,  and — well,  she  won't  desert.  She  is 
a  queen,  by  God,  sir!  Miss  Jacqueline  might  make  her,  but 
I  haven't  got  the  heart  to  ask  it.  Now,  uh,  if — if  you  would 
just  bring  along  the  other  one?" 

So,  here  was  the  goal  of  all  of  Daniel's  maneuvering! 

Driscoll  cast  a  leg  over  the  pommel  of  his  saddle,  and  faced 
Boone  squarely.  "Shanks,"  he  demanded  with  tense  vehe- 
mence, "do  you  suppose  I  need  your  woes  for  a  prod  ?  Don't 
you  know  how  much — Lord  A'mighty,  how  much! — I'd  like 
to  oblige  you?  But-^-she  won't  let  me — even  speak.  There's, 
there's  something  the  matter." 

Boone's  lank  jaw  fell.     "What,  I  wonder?" 

"And  don't  I  wonder  too?"  Driscoll  muttered  savagely. 
"But  it's  something." 

From  which  moment  until  the  end  of  the  journey,  and  after- 


The  Contrariness  of  Jacqueline  505 

ward,  there  were  two  men  who  pondered  on  what  could  be 
the  trouble  with  Jacqueline.  But  while  one  pondered  gloomily 
and  fiercely  and  with  a  semi-comic  grin  under  the  lash,  the 
other  let  perplexity  delve  and  ferret  into  the  mystery.  For 
Mr.  Boone  had  grown  aware  that  an  enormous  heap  of 
happiness  for  four  depended  on  himself  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  JOURNALISTIC  SAGACITY  OF  A  DANIEL 

"  Ah,  my  Beloved,  fill  the  cup  that  clears 
To-day  of  past  Regret  and  future  Fears." 
— Omar. 

AT  LAST  Jacqueline  stabbed  a  dot  after  the  word  "Finis," 
and  so  rounded  out  her  chapter  on  "Failure."  Beyond 
doubt  that  tiny  punctuation  point  saved  many  lives.  The 
besiegers  were  waxing  impatient  to  assault,  and  within  the 
City  famine  mobs  ran  the  streets,  crying,  "Corn  and  wood! 
Corn  and  wood!"  Those  who  could  fled  to  the  Republican 
camp.  The  Austrians  practically  mutinied.  Starving  and 
dying  thousands  clamored  for  surrender.  Yet  the  ugly, 
revolting  pigmy  who  was  lieutenant  of  the  Empire  held  them 
back  in  the  terror  of  his  heartless  cruelty. 

Then  the  angel  of  mercy  came.  From  her  Marquez  the 
tyrant  learned  that  his  speculation  in  treachery  had  collapsed. 
Louis  Napoleon  wanted  no  more  of  that  stock.  Besides, 
every  French  bayonet  was  needed  in  France.  The  rabid 
Leopard  heard,  and  that  night  meanly  crept  away  to  save  his 
own  loathsome  pelt.  Bombs  had  begun  to  fall  into  the  City, 
when  a  Mexican  general  worthier  of  the  name  took  upon 
himself  the  heroic  shame  of  unconditional  surrender.  The 
Oaxacans  outside  marched  in,  led  by  their  young  chief, 
Porfirio  Diaz,  and  they  fed  the  people,  and  of  "traitors"  shot 
only  a  moderate  few. 

Renovation  became  the  order  of  the  days  that  followed.  The 
President  of  the  Republic  was  to  be  welcomed  back  to  his 

506 


The  Journalistic  Sagacity  of  a  Daniel         507 

capital.  The  stubborn  old  patriot's  heart  must  be  gladdened 
by  every  contrast  to  the  dreary,  rainy  night  years  before  when 
he  fled  into  exile.  Mexico  would  honor  herself  in  honoring 
the  Benemerito  of  America.  So  bunting  was  spread  over 
every  fajade,  along  every  cornice,  green,  white,  and  red,  a 
festival  lichen  of  magic  growth.  Flags  cracked  and  snapped 
aloft,  and  lace  curtains  decked  the  outside  of  windows.  Sol- 
diers put  on  shoes  and  canvased  their  brown  hands  in  white 
cotton  gloves,  and  military  bands  rehearsed  tirelessly. 

Din  Driscoll  sat  on  a  bench  in  the  shady  Zocalo,  and  con- 
templated the  Palacio  Nacional  and  the  Cathedral  in  process 
of  changing  sides  from  Empire  to  Republic.  Innumerable  lan- 
terns being  hung  along  their  massive  outlines  were  for  incense 
to  a  goddess  restored*.  The  Mexican  eagle  had  prevailed  over 
monarchial  griffins,  and  held  her  serpent  safely  in  the  way 
of  being  throttled.  The  blunt  homely  visage  of  Don  Benito 
Juarez,  luxuriously  framed,  looked  out  from  over  the  Palace 
entrance.  It  was  a  huge  portrait,  surrounded  by  the  national 
standards.  Among  the  emblems  there  was  one  other,  the  Stars 
and  Stripes.  The  gaze  of  the  ex-Confederate  was  fixed.  It 
was  fixed  steadily  on  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  Now  and  then  he 
felt  a  rising  in  his  throat,  which  he  had  difficulty  to  swallow 
down  again. 

"Well,  Jack?" 

Boone  stood  over  him.  DriscolFs  eyes  were  oddly  troubled 
as  they  turned  from  that  flag  opposite. 

"Sure  it's  hard,"  said  Boone  quietly,  "mighty  hard,  to  for- 
give our  enemies  the  good  they  do." 

"What  enemies?" 

"W'y,  them,"  and  Daniel  pointed  to  a  flag  as  to  a  nation. 
"Yes  sir,  the  Yanks  have  kept  faith.  Do  you  see  a  single  one 
of  their  uniforms  down  here?  Do  you  notice  anywheres  that 
Yankee  protectorate  we  were  predicting?  No  sir,  you  do  not! 
The  Yanks—"  But  the  term  was  damning  to  eloquence. 


5°8  The  Missourian 

Mr.  Boone  found  another.  "The  Americans,  I  repeat,  have 
hurled  back  the  European  invader.  They  have  given  Mexico 
to  the  Mexicans.  They  have  endowed  a  people  with  nation- 
ality. But  they  have  not  gobbled  up  one  solitary  foot  of  terri- 
tory. Which  is  finer,  grander,  than  your  Napoleonic  glory! 
And  yet  it's  selfish,  of  coh'se  it  is.  But  listen  here,  there'll 
never  be  any  Utopia,  Altruria,  Millennium,  or  what  not,  that 
don't  coincide  with  self-interest.  And  first  among  the  races 
of  the  earth,  the  Americans  have  made  'em  coincide,  and  I 
want  to  know  right  now  if  the  Americans  are  not  the  hope  of 
the  world!" 

The  orator  paused  for  breath.  He  had  to.  And  then  sur- 
prise the  most  lugubrious  unexpectedly  clouded  his  lank 
features.  "Darn  it,  Jack,"  he  exclaimed"  in  alarm,  "if  I  ain't 
getting  Reconstructed,  right  while  I  am  standing  here!" 

"Talked  yourself  into  it,"  Driscoll  observed  scornfully. 
"But  Dan,  you  can  just  put  the  South  along  with  your  Ameri- 
cans. The  French  laughed  at  the  North  alone,  but  later,  when 
— Well,  just  maybe  it's  a  good  thing  we  did  get  licked." 

Mr.  Boone  gasped.  Sparks  of  indignation  darted  from  his 
steel  blue  eyes.  The  recoil  needed  a  full  minute  to  spend 
itself.  Then  a  greater  horror  appalled  him,  a  horror  of  him- 
self. "The  Lawd  help  me,"  he  burst  forth,  "but  you're  right, 
Din  Driscoll!  You  are!  It  was  for  the  best.  But  don't 
you  ever  think  I'm  going  to  admit  it  again,  to  nary  a  living 
mortal  soul,,  myself  included.  W'y,  it  would,  it  would  knock 
my  editorial  usefulness — all  to  smash.  There,"  he  added, 
"that's  decided,  we're  going  back.  The  colonels  want  their 
mamas.  They've  been  men  long  enough,  and  they're  plum* 
homesick.  All  the  old  grudges  up  there  must  be  about  paid 
off  by  now,  so's  an  ex-Reb  can  live  in  Missouri  without  train 
robbing.  Libertas  et  natale  solum — It's  our  surrender,  at 
last." 

Driscoll  rose  abruptly.     "Lay  down  your  pen,   Shanks," 


The  Journalistic  Sagacity  of  a  Daniel        509 

he  said.  "You're  only  trying  to  convert  the  converted.  Of 
course  I'm  going  too.  That  there  flag,  being  down  here, 
did  it.  And  don't  you  suppose  I've  had  letters  from  home 
too?" 

Meagre  Shanks  jumped  with  relief.  He  straightened 
throughout  his  spare  length.  As  the  smell  of  battle  to  the  war 
charger,  the  pungent  odor  of  printer's  ink  wet  on  galley  proofs 
assailed  his  nostrils.  There  were  visions,  of  double-leaded, 
unterrified  thunderbolts  crashing  from  the  old  Gutenberg, 
back  in  Booneville. 

"Missouri,"  he  breathed  in  fire,  "Missouri  will  sho'ly  stay 
Democratic." 

Both  men  glowed.  They  were  buoyant,  happy.  But  these 
two  could  not  so  soon  be  quit  of  the  enervating  Land  of  Roses. 
A  pair  of  countenances  fell  together.  Daniel  voiced  their 
mutual  thought. 

"And  Miss  Jacqueline?"  he  queried  boldly,  with  the  air  of 
meaning  to  persist,  no  matter  what  happened. 

Driscoll  showed  weariness,  anger. 

"And  Miss  Burt?"  he  parried. 

"She  won't  desert,  I  told  you  once." 

"You  mean  that  she's  going  to  Paris  too?  I  say,  Shanks, 
they're  leaving  to-morrow." 

Shanks  knew  that  much,  quite  well  enough. 

"Have  you  tried  to  stop  her?"  he  demanded  sternly. 

Driscoll  only  looked  disgusted. 

"But  have  you — asked  her?" 

DriscolPs  head  jerked  a  nod,  of  wrath  ascending. 

The  inquisitor  wisely  swerved.  What  her  answer  had  been 
was,  to  say  the  least,  palpable.  But  her  reason  for  it  was  the 
question  with  Daniel. 

"Is  it,"  he  pursued,  "is  it  because  she  hasn't  any  dot?  You 
know,  Jack,  that  in  France,  when  a  young  lady " 

"No,  it's  not  that.    I  know  it's  not." 


t;io  The  Missourian 

"Oh  ho,"  said  Daniel,  "so  you've  been  guessing  too!  And 
how  many  guesses  did  she  give  you  ?  No,  let  me  try  just  a  few 
more.  It  ain't  because,  because  she's  an  aristocrat?" 

"But  I  want  an  aristocrat,"  cried  the  young  Missourian, 
"one  to  her  finger  tips,  enough  of  one  to  be  above  aristocracy. 
And  she  is." 

"Then,"  said  his  friend  in  despair,  "it's  because  she  don't, 
just  simply  don't  care  for  you?" 

"You're  a  long  time  finding  that  out." 

"What!    You  don't  mean " 

"Fact,"  said  Driscoll.  "Even  I  guessed  it  at  last.  I  told 
her  I  had  been  reckoning  that  she " 

"Cared,  yes?" 

Driscoll  made  a  wry  face.  "And  she  said  I  musn't  jump  at 
conclusions,  I  might  scare  'em." 

The  Troubadour  chuckled  heartlessly.  Neither  was  Dris- 
coll's  sense  of  humor  entirely  gone. 

"'Oh,  awful  goddess!  ever  dreadful  maid!'"  Mr.  Boone 
quoted. 

"She's  sure  a  wonder,"  the  other  owned  gloomily. 

"And  you  are  a  blind  dunce,  Jack." 

"Don't  talk  axioms  at  me,"  said  Driscoll,  with  a  warning 
light  in  his  eye.  "I  don't  need  'em." 

"Well,  now,"  drawled  Mr.  Boone,  "I  can't  help  it  if  I  asso- 
ciate with  you  any  longer,  so  I'll  just  mosey  round  to  the  flower 
market.  As  they  leave  tomorrow,  they'll  be  wanting  some 
violets." 

And  he  went,  and  Din  Driscoll  sat  down  again  and  hated 
him. 

Daniel  wended  his  way  slowly,  an  attenuated  ranger  in  gray 
mid  carriages  and  blanketed  forms.  "Sho"',  he  mused, 
"that  girl's  heart  is  fair  bleeding  for  him,  can't  7  see!  Her 
eye-lashes,  they're  wet,  every  now  and  then.  And  whatever 
the  matter  with  her  is,  it's  nothing.  But  nothing  is  the  very 


The  Journalistic  Sagacity  of  a  Daniel        511 

darndest  thing  to  overcome  in  a  girl.  There's  got  to  be  strong 
measures.  It's  got  to  be  jolted  out  of  her.  Archimagnifico, 
there's  the  point!" 

Mr.  Boone  drew  out  a  black  cigar,  and  mangled  it  between 
his  teeth.  He  pondered  and  pondered,  absent-mindedly 
kicking  at  natives  he  bumped  into.  "Kidnap  'em!"  he  cried 
at  length.  "N-o,"  he  reflected,  "they  go  in  the  public  stage, 
and  what  with  the  escort,  somebody'd  get  hurt.  We  don't 
want  any  dead  men  at  this  wedding.  Old  Brothers  and 
Sisters  would  balk  anyhow,  and  our  ecclesiastical  officiator  is 
the  boy  we  do  need.  Now  what  the  everlasting " 

He  meant  what  salutary  jolt  he  could  invent,  barring  hold- 
ups, but  in  the  same  breath  he  meant  also  a  most  startling, 
scene  which  revealed  itself  as  he  turned  the  corner. 

A  deafening  crash  of  musketry  was  the  first  thing,  and  he 
looked  up.  He  had  come  into  a  small  plaza  before  a  church, 
and  against  the  church's  blank  wall  a  scene  was  taking  place 
before  an  awe-stricken  throng.  He  understood.  Another 
proscribed  "traitor"  had  just  been  caught;  and  executed,  natur- 
ally. But  no,  not  executed !  For  as  the  officer  of  the  shooting 
squad  approached  to  give  the  stroke  of  mercy,  the  prostrate 
victim  raised  himself  by  one  hand  and  knocked  aside  the  pistol 
at  his  head.  Then  he  laughed  in  the  officer's  face,  the  most 
diabolical  and  unearthly  mirth  any  there  had  ever  heard. 
There  was  not  a  stain  of  blood  on  him.  He  had  dropped  in 
the  breath  of  eternity  before  the  bullets  spattered  past.  But 
his  uplifted  face,  with  chin  tilted  back,  was  swollen,  black,  dis- 
torted, corded  by  pulsing  veins,  and  one  of  the  eyes — a  crossed 
eye — bulged  round  and  purple  out  of  its  socket,  and  gleamed. 
The  demon  of  pain  was  tearing  at  the  man's  tissue  of  life,  but 
by  grip  of  will  unspeakable  the  agony  in  that  grimace  changed 
to  a  smile. 

"Yes,  poison!  Vitriol!"  he  chattered  at  them  hideously. 
"Adios,  imbeciles.  It's  my  last — jest!" 


512  The  Missourian 

Whereat  he  fell,  writhing  as  the  acid  burned  to  his  soul 
Before  the  astounded  officer  could  shoot,  he  had  grown  entirely 
quiet. 

Boone  strained  and  pushed  against  the  crowd  until  he  reached 
the  spot.  The  cadaver  was  in  tight  charro  garb  of  raw  leather. 
His  sombrero  lay  near,  on  which  was  worked  a  Roman  sword, 
meaning  "Woe  to  the  conquered!"  Boone  turned  inquiringly 
to  the  officer.  The  man,  who  was  pallid,  touched  his  thumb 
to  his  cap,  recognizing  the  uniform  of  the  Grays. 

"You  should  know  him,  mi  coronel,"  he  explained.  "His 
name  was  Tiburcio.  He  deserted  from  the  Imperialistas  at 
Quere*taro,  but  afterward  he  joined  the  plot  for  Maximilian's 
escape.  We  had  his  description,  and  I  found  him.  He  wanted 
to  take  me  to  Marquez  and  Fischer,  whom  we  would  also  like 
to  find.  He  said  that  he  risked  himself  here,  to  spy  on  them, 
and  that  he  knew  where  they  had  fled,  the  Leopard  disguised  in 
the  padre's  cloak.  But  of  course  I  paid  no  attention.  I  did 
not  delay  even  to  tie  his  hands.  As  Your  Mercy  observes,  I 
had  the  honor  to  do  my  duty,  at  once." 

"I  see,"  replied  Boone  dryly.     "Lawd,  this  is  a  jolt!" 

Then  he  got  himself  away  from  there. 

"A  jolt,"  he  muttered  to  himself  again.  "But  shucks,  it 
can't — Yes,  it  can,"  he  decided  fervently,  "it  can  be  used. 
We've  got  to  have  something  terrifying,  and  poor  cock-eyed 
Don  Tibby  won't  care.  He'd  appreciate  it.  And  anyhow, 
I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  stir  up  inspirations  to-day,  and 
this  is  the  only  thing." 

He  was  as  pallid  as  the  shooting  squad  he  had  just  left. 

"No  matter,"  he  reflected,  "I'll  need  just  this  ghastly  state 
of  mind.  But  here,  goodness  gracious,  I've  got  to  be  in  a 
sweat,"  with  which  he  began  to  run,  a  lank  knight  in  gray 
dented  armor. 

"Worse  luck,"  his  thought  pounded  along  with  him,  "this 
here's  the  first  time  I've  ever  faked.  And  it's  a  heap  the  hottest 


The  Journalistic  Sagacity  of  a  Daniel         513 

story  I've  ever  handled,  too.  Our  little  Parisienne  will  get  a 
frisson  all  right,  all  right,  and  such  a  one  she'll  not  be  wanting 
any  of  again  very  soon.  Dixie  Land,  I  mustn't  smoke,  I'm 
to  be  too  excited." 

He  came  into  the  Zdcalo,  and  drew  up  before  Driscoll,  who 
was  still  there  and  still  ruminating. 

"Listen  here,"  Boone  panted,  "here's  your  cue. — In  ten 
minutes — to  the  second — arrive — knock  at  her  door — appear!" 

"With  violets?"  inquired  Driscoll. 

"Oh  shut  up! — Quit,  don't  stop  me,  I'm  getting  cooled  off! — 
Only  do  what  I  say. — In  just  ten  minutes — that  is — if  you  want 
the  girl." 

And  Daniel  was  off  again,  "with  high  and  haughty  steps" 
towering  along. 

"That  Meagre  Shanks,  there,  isn't  a  fool,"  Driscoll  mentally 
recorded,  and  he  took  out  his  watch. 

The  two  girls  were  stopping  at  a  hotel  in  Plateros  Street,  for 
Jacqueline  had  returned  to  find  her  beautiful  residence,  salon 
and  all,  ruthlessly  dismantled,  looted,  robbed  by  Marquez 
while  she  was  in  Queretaro,  which  was  a  manner  of  levying 
contributions  not  unfamiliar  to  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Empire. 

In  the  balcony  room  of  their  hotel  suite  the  two  girls  strove 
valiantly.  Crisp  gowns  and  dainty  allied  mysteries  lay  spread 
over  the  upholstery.  They  were  vanishing  into  cavernous 
trunks,  with  crushing  indifference  if  Jacqueline  seized  on  a 
garment,  but  gently  when  Berthe  rescued  it,  which  she  always 
did.  Through  the  double  glass  doors  of  the  balcony  the 
street  sounds  below  rose  to  their  ears,  clarion  notes  and  vivas, 
hurrying  feet  and  prancing  hoofs,  and  the  National  hymn  a 
few  blocks  away  in  the  Zocalo. 

Suddenly  a  grim  apparition  loomed  before  the  glass  doors  on 
the  balcony.  Berthe  half  screamed,  in  dismay  clutching  at  ruffles 
and  laces  to  hide  them,  when  into  the  sweet-scented  confusion 
strode  Mr.  Daniel  Boone.  He  was  the  grim  apparition. 


514  The  Missourian 

Jacqueline  withheld  her  opinion,  but  she  had  one.  The 
intruder's  spurs  were  iconoclastic  of  carpeting,  his  abrupt 
presence  of  feminine  sensibilities.  But  the  lean,  perspiring 
face  drove  away  all  thought  of  the  conventions.  Jacqueline 
snatched  up  a  fleecy  bank  of  petticoats,  making  room  for  him 
on  the  sofa.  Daniel  stared  vacantly.  The  two  girls  looked 
very  pretty.  They  were  just  flurried  enough,  and  they  wore 
white  lawn,  with  sleeves  short  to  the  elbow.  His  fingers 
groped,  and  soon  they  closed  over  a  small,  instinctive  hand. 
He  kept  hold  upon  that  hand  for  strength,  at  the  same  time 
collapsing  on  the  sofa. 

"Now,  if  you  please,"  said  Jacqueline  calmly,  "what " 

"O  Lawd!"  Boone  gulped,  fighting  for  breath.  "It  don't 
matter  much — maybe — to  you  all,  but — O  Lawd,  I  got  to  tell 
somebody!" 

"Tell  us,  tell  us!"  cried  she  of  the  captured  hand. 

Daniel  had  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  retain  it. 

"You  know  that — that  poor  devil  Tiburcio?"  he  gasped. 

"Yes,  yes!"     But  what  anti-climax  was  here? 

"Well,  he — he's  dead.     I  saw  him. — Lawd!" 

"Oh!"     It  was  a  little  cry  of  relief. 

"But  some  were — were  killed — taking  him."  Boone  noted 
Jacqueline's  intake  of  breath,  her  first  tremor  of  alarm. 
"  He  fought  like  a — a  wildcat.  He  had  a  knife — and  a  machete 
— and  a  pistol — and " 

"Who  was  killed?  Monsieur — Oh,  mon  Dieu,  what  can 
you  have  to  tell  me?" 

Daniel  almost  repented,  there  was  that  in  her  gray  eyes. 

"Among  them  was  my — "  He  nerved  himself  to  it,  some 
way — "my  best  friend,  that  peerless " 

"Who?"  Her  command  was  imperious,  her  white  teeth 
were  set. 

"Din  Driscoll!" 

The  man  blurted  it   out  like  a  whipped  schoolboy.     He 


The  Journalistic  Sagacity  of  a  Daniel         $IS 

could   not   look   up.     He    could    only    feel   that    she    stood 
there,  stricken,  suffering. 
"Where  is  he?" 

He  could  not  believe  that  this  was  her  voice.  It  was  hardened, 
tearless,  without  emotion. 

"Monsieur — where  is  he?" 

The  girl  at  his  side  sprang  up  with  a  sharp  cry  to  her  who 
questioned.  Then  he  raised  his  eyes.  Jacqueline  was  un- 
aware of  the  sobbing  girl  who  clung  to  her.  Her  face  was 
changed  to  marble,  her  body  as  rigid. 

"Take  me  to  him,"  she  spoke  again,  still  with  that  deathly 
authority  of  the  grave. 

The  man  stammered  before  what  he  had  done.  The  great 
beads  stood  out  on  his  forehead.  "You  would  not — you 
must  not — you " 

"He  is  mine,"  she  said  simply.  "Wait,  I  shah1  be  ready,  at 
once."  She  passed  into  an  inner  room,  the  portieres  falling 
after  her. 

"She's — she's  getting  on  her  hat,"  Boone  muttered  inanely. 
"Buh'the,  she's  got  to  be  stopped!  She's — God,  why  don't 
he  come?  It's  shuah  ten  minutes.  It's — What's  that?" 

Someone  had  knocked.  In  the  instant  Boone  had  the  hall 
door  ajar. 

"Round  to  the  balcony  window,  hurry!"  he  whispered. 

Then  he  turned,  caught  Berthe  by  the  hand,  and  drew  her 
quickly  out  into  the  hall.  As  he  closed  the  door  behind  him, 
he  heard  the  portieres  rustle,  but  he  dared  not  look  back. 

Jacqueline  stepped  into  the  room,  and  her  hat  was  upon  her 
head.  It  was  of  straw,  with  a  drooping  brim.  She  had  thrown 
a  long  cloak  over  her  thin  dress.  There  was  ice  in  her  veins  on 
this  tropical  June  day.  She  paused,  for  she  saw  that  the  room 
was  deserted.  But  no— there  was  a  shadow  between  her  and 
the  balcony  door.  She  stared  at  it,  and  her  eyes  grew  big. 
The  cloak  slipped  to  the  floor,  and  her  fingers  worked  in  the 


516  The  Missourian 

tapestry  behind  her.  She  fluttered  weakly,  like  a  wounded 
dove  on  the  ground.  Her  knees  trembled  under  her.  And 
the  man  there  ?  He  was  gazing  about  him  in  a  puzzled  way, 
for  the  glare  outside  still  blinded  him.  Then  he  saw.  He 
reached  her,  and  caught  her  as  she  sank.  He  felt  two  soft 
arms,  but  icy  cold,  drop  as  lead  around  his  neck.  The  white 
form  he  held  was  rigid,  and  he  thought  of  shrouds  and  the 
chilled  death  sweat.  With  savage  despair  he  crushed  her  to 
him.  After  a  time  her  body  slowly  began  to  relax. 

"Oh,  oh,  my  lad,  my  lad!"  he  heard  her  crying  faintly,  in  a 
kind  of  hysteria. 

He  touched  her  hair  dazedly,  with  unutterable  tenderness. 

"There,  there — sweetheart!" 

The  word  came,  though  he  had  never  used  it  before. 

Blood  awoke,  and  coursed,  sluggishly  at  first,  through  her 
being,  until  her  heart  tripped  and  throbbed  and  pounded 
against  his  own.  Her  head  lay  on  his  breast,  the  hat  hanging 
by  its  ribbons  over  her  back,  and  with  the  pulsing  life  the  head 
and  her  whole  body  nestled  closer.  The  soft  arms  grew 
warm  against  his  neck,  and  tightened  fiercely,  to  hold  and 
keep  him.  Gently  he  forced  up  her  chin,  and  her  eyes,  wet  with 
hottest  tears,  opened  under  his.  He  bent  and  kissed  the  long 
lashes.  But  a  small  moist  hand  flattened  against  his  brow 
and  pushed  back  his  head,  and  she  raised  on  tiptoe.  He  under- 
stood, and — their  lips  met. 

"Tu  sais,"  she  murmured  deliriously — nothing  but  her  own 
dear  French  would  answer  now — "tu  sais,  que — oh,  mon 
cceur,  que  je — que  je  I'aime/" 

The  oddest  contrasts  fall  over  life's  most  sacred  mo- 
ments. The  tone  of  her  words  thrilled  him,  set  every  fibre 
tingling,  yet  he  thought  of  dry  conjugations  and  declensions, 
conned  over  and  over  again  in  school,  and  he  was  conscious  of 
vague  wonderment  that  those  things  really,  actually,  had  a 
meaning.  Meaning?  He  believed  now  that  no  words  in 


The  Journalistic  Sagacity  of  a  Daniel         517 

English  could  tell  so  much.  He  did  not  have  to  understand 
them.  They  bore  the  flesh  and  blood,  the  passion  and  the 
soul,  of  a  woman  who  told  him  that  she  loved  him. 

With  a  hesitant  gentleness  which  bespoke  the  deep  and 
reverent  awe  in  his  yearning,  he  pressed  her  head  back  against 
its  resting  place.  A  man  can  do  without  words  of  any  kind. 
She  grew  very  quiet  there.  The  tense  quivering  ceased,  and 
she  crept  closer,  and  at  last  she  sighed,  purringly,  contentedly. 

But  of  course  there  was  more  which  she  simply  had  to  say. 
And  this  time,  when  she  raised  her  eyes,  they  were  calm  and 
earnest,  and  her  beautiful  forehead  was  white  and  very  grave. 
"Dcr  you  know,  dear,"  she  said,  "I  should  not  care  to  live,  I 
would  not  have  lived,  if  what  he  said  were — were —  But 
the  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  angry  with  herself,  she  planted 
her  fists  against  him  to  be  free,  and  as  impulsively  crying, 
"Oh,  my — my  own  dear  lad!"  she  flung  her  arms  about  his 
neck  again.  "Oh,  oh,"  she  moaned,  "he  said  that  you  were 
dead!" 

For  the  first  time  it  dawned  on  Driscoll  that  all  this  must 
have  had  a  cause,  and  for  the  first  time  since  entering  the  room 
he  remembered  Boone. 

"  He  told  you— He " 

But  Driscoll  did  not  finish.  Putting  her  from  him  he  sprang 
to  the  door  and  flung  it  open.  There  he  waited.  Boone  was 
outside,  and  Boone  walked  expectantly  in.  Without  a  word 
Driscoll  raised  his  fist,  drew  it  back,  his  cruel  arm  muscled  to 
kill.  Jacqueline  saw  his  anger  for  her,  terrible  in  murder. 
She  threw  herself  upon  him,  got  hold  of  the  knotted  fist,  got  it 
to  her  lips.  Another  woman,  too,  had  darted  between  him  and 
the  other  man,  and  she  faced  him.  The  gentle  Berthe  was 
become  a  little  tigress. 

"Not  that,  not  that!"  It  was  Jacqueline's  voice.  "Listen, 
mon  cheri,  I— I  thank  him.  Au  contraire,  I  do!  And— and 
you  must,  too!" 


Si8  The  Missourian 

Driscoll  stared  at  all  three,  first  at  one,  then  at  another. 
He  floundered,  stupefied.  Here  was  this  loving  girl,  clinging 
to  him  as  though  he  might  vanish,  and  he  had  left  her  that 
morning  a  disdainful  beauty.  Then  here  was  this  Meagre 
Shanks  with  his  mysterious  ten  minutes,  and  here  was  this 
dumfounding  product  of  those  ten  minutes.  Driscoll  put 
forth  an  open  hand. 

"Dan,"  he  muttered  incoherently,  "you're  a — a  wonder, 
too!" 

Boone  clenched  the  proffered  hand  in  his  own.  "I  never 
once  thought,  Jack,"  he  said  earnestly,  contritely,  "never  once, 
that  she  cared  so  ever '-lastingly  much." 

"Well,"  said  Driscoll,  "don't  do  it  again." 

"Not  unless,"  ventured  Boone,  "not  unless  she  should  ever 
want  a  little  antidote  for  ennui.  By  the  way,  mademoiselle, 
do  you  thank  me  for  the  quaver  of  emotion,  for  the  frisson?" 

"Frisson ? "  she  repeated  scornfully,  with  loathing.  For  once 
she  had  been  unaware  of  the  prized  knife-like  tremor.  In  the 
fear  of  losing  one  dear  she  had  lost  consciousness  of  self.  She  had 
lived  the  tremor,  the  agony,  and  it  was  too  dreadful.  "No,  mon- 
sieur," she  said,  "I  want  no  more  of  art.  I — I  want  to  live/" 

"You  needed  something,  though,"  said  Berthe,  "to  make  you 
find  it  out." 

Driscoll  looked  curiously  at  the  two  girls. 

"Yes,  J-Jack'leen" — how  quaintly  awkward  he  was,  trying 
her  old  tomboy  nickname  without  the  "Miss!" — "Yes,  what 
was  the  matter  with  you,  anyhow  ?  " 

"Parbleu,  I  forgot!"  cried  Jacqueline  in  dismay.  "I  was 
not  to  have  monsieur,  no!"  And  Jacqueline's  chin,  tilting 
back  with  elaborate  hauteur,  was  meant  to  indicate  that  she 
was  in  her  first  mind  about  it. 

Berthe  laughed  outright,  and  softly  clapped  her  hands. 

"Sho',"  declared  Mr.  Boone,  "the  matter  was  nothing, 
nothing  at  all!" 


The  Journalistic  Sagacity  of  a  Daniel         519 

But  before  feminine  caprices  and  scruples  it  is  wiser  to  bow 
low  into  the  dust.  Jacqueline  turned  on  the  editorial  person- 
age with  vast  indignation.  "You  leave  the  room,  Seigneur 
Troubadour,"  she  commanded,  "and  Berthe,  you  march  with 
him.  Haste,  both  of  you!" 

They  went,  meekly.  Their  attempt  to  hide  content  over 
the  dismissal  together  was  extreme,  but  transparent. 

"What  was  it?"  Driscoll  insisted,  when  he  and  Jacqueline 
were  alone  once  more. 

"You  mean,"  she  exclaimed,  "that  you  are  going  to  quarrel 
—now?" 

"Jack'leen,  what  was  it?" 

"I  reck-on,"  she  observed  demurely,  "that  the  animal 
disputans  was — was  right,  after  all.  It  was  nothing,  I — 
reck-on." 

He  noted  mockery,  defiance.  There  was  much  too  much 
independence  after  her  late  surrender.  He  went  up  to  her  and 
deliberately  reassumed  the  mastery.  He  held  her,  by  force. 
"Mon  chevalier,"  she  murmured  softly.  So  she  confessed  his 
strength. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said. 

"And  you  did  not  guess?  You — Oh,  how  I  hated  you! 
How  I  never  wanted  to  see  you,  never  again!  Not  after,  not 
after — Mon  Dieu,  you  were  two  exasperating  idiots,  you  and 
poor  Prince  Max!  He  virtually  threw  me  into  your  arms. 
But  I,  monsieur,  am  not  a  person  to  be  thrown.  That  is, 
unless — unless  I  do  it  myself,  which — I  did,  helas!" 

The  trooper's  grip  tightened  on  her  arms.  "Then  you," 
he  said  earnestly,  "would  have  let  me  lose  you?" 

She  laughed  merrily  at  him. 

"And  would  not  you  have  followed  after  me?" 

"W'y,  little  girl,  I  reckon  I  certainly  would  of." 

"Don't,"  she  gasped.  "Let  me  come — closer.  Oh  dear 
how  can  the  bon  Dieu  let  people  be  so  happy — s-o  happy!" 


000  051  442   I 


